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As Alfred and his men turned off the river road through the village of Hutton, they were greeted with a ragged cheer.
“It’s nice to be appreciated,” said Sir Walter Davies, riding up beside Alfred.
“I suppose they’re glad we’re here at all,” said Alfred, waving to a pair of milkmaids who giggled and turned red.
There had been a troop of Gramiren cavalry up the road in Chickwell, barely three miles away, and the people on this side of the river were reassured to see men in Sigor blue ride through town with banners flying. Alfred and his men were coming back from Chickwell, where they had killed a few of those Gramiren cavalrymen. But not enough. Most had gotten away, and they would likely be back in force in a day or two.
The people in Hutton didn’t know the military situation as well as Alfred and Walter did. But they lived right across the River Trahern from Leornian. They could see its bastions and towers and gates, and they knew they were on the wrong side of the wall, if worse came to worst.
In the initial battle, the Gramiren troops had come within shouting distance of the city’s gates, but then they had withdrawn again to a ring of camps several miles away while they brought up reinforcements and siege engines. Broderick Gramiren had closed a mailed fist around the Sigors, and now he was starting to squeeze. All the roads were blocked. All the woods and fields were patrolled. Alfred and his men had spent most of the past week testing the Gramiren lines, north, south, east, and west of the city. It was the same story in every direction—Leornian was cut off from the world.
Alfred and his men crossed the Redwald Bridge into Leornian. They paraded down Sewell and Crown Streets to the Bocburg, where Alfred left them, and Sir Walter led them back to their camp west of the city. The queen regent and her brother, the captain general, had both made a point of encouraging military parades in the past few days. The idea was to show the people of Leornian—and the people of outlying villages like Hutton—that the Sigor army hadn’t given up yet.
Privately, Alfred wondered if it would do any good at all. But the men seemed to enjoy it, and the civilians, too. So at the very least, it wasn’t hurting anything.
He went to the kitchens to get a quick bite to eat, and then came out to find that the captain general and several other members of the privy council wanted an informal report on his raid. Following a servant, he found them in the library, seated around a low table covered with maps and books. The queen regent sat in the largest, deepest chair, with her back to the door as Alfred entered—he recognized her by her gilded hairnet and little diamond circlet. To her left, on an ancient dark leather couch, sat Caedmon Aldred and Dr. Sir Roland Stark, head of the university. To her right sat Robert Dryhten, Duke of Leornian and lord chancellor. Earl Lawrence, the captain general, was on his feet, pacing around in front of the ancient bookshelves and gesturing with a drink in one hand. His other arm remained in a sling.
“The key, I think,” he said, “is to change perceptions. So we are besieged? What of that? The word ‘siege’ is from the Classical Immani, ‘sedere,’ meaning ‘to sit.’ Broderick has, in a literal sense, sat down before us. He is sitting; we are standing. He is passive; we are active. He is—”
“As much as I appreciate semantics and etymology, your lordship,” said Sir Roland, “I fear they may be of limited use in our current crisis.”
The earl seemed a bit put out to be interrupted, but then he noticed Alfred. “Ah! Just the man I was looking for. Give us some good news, Sir Alfred!”
Alfred told them about the little skirmish in the Bishop’s Forest around Chickwell. He could tell the earl wanted to seize on this news and call it a great victory, but Duke Robert threw a wet blanket on his lordship’s optimism.
“We have lost most of the farmland that sustains this city,” the duke said. “The council has already discussed rationing of food and other supplies. We are going to need to impose stricter controls than we had thought.”
“You mean Sir Presley has suggested it,” Earl Lawrence muttered, but no one responded.
On that gloomy note, the meeting broke up, with the earl offering a drink to anyone who wanted one. Alfred declined politely and left the library.
In the entrance hall, he met Princess Elwyn coming up the front steps. She had on a very attractive riding outfit of green tweed and tan leather, and she was dusty and red in the face, like she had come from a vigorous ride.
“Sir Alfred!” she cried, beaming. “I was thinking of sending you a note. Do you know what tomorrow is?”
To his embarrassment, it took him a few moments to remember. “Oh, yes, your royal highness. Your birthday, of course.” He bowed.
Everyone who spent any time around the court knew all the royal birthdays. There were always several levels of celebrations—an official audience that everyone could attend, a more selective feast for the high nobility, and then finally an intimate party for close, personal friends. One’s status at court was often marked by which of these parties one was invited to.
“You’re coming, aren’t you?” she asked. “For once, I want people around me I actually like. You don’t even need to bring me a present. It’s going to be a very small affair. People are talking about rationing because of the siege, so I told my mother I don’t want some giant feast with ten main dishes and twenty desserts and all that. Only a little party for friends. And I’ve decided to take up a collection for the refugees.”
Several hundred people from surrounding villages had retreated into Leornian with the Sigor army. No one had the heart to make them go back home, but they had no money for food, and Duke Robert was running out of places to house all of them.
“That’s very patriotic of you, my lady.”
She took her riding crop from under her arm and waved it at his nose. “Are you being sarcastic, Sir Alfred?”
“No, my lady. I’m genuinely impressed.”
“I’ll tell you a secret.” She tucked the riding crop away and sidled closer. “I hate big parties. So I’m afraid it’s pure selfishness, not patriotism, at all.”
She laughed, and he laughed with her, and he promised he would attend the party.
He thought about her a lot that evening, and the next day, too. It seemed like every time he talked to her these days, he discovered unexpected depths. Sometimes people around the castle spoke of her like she was still a child. But as far as he could tell, she had a better grasp of the realities of the military situation than a lot of other people in Leornian. And that included her uncle, the captain general.
Most of the time, if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t care about any of that. He thought about her eyes, and the scent of her perfume when she drew near, and the way she looked in that close-fitting riding dress whenever she walked away.
On the hot, muggy morning of August 11, he went around to visit his officers. In the afternoon, he spent several hours chasing down a report of Gramiren troops massing at the edge of Alfgar Wood, south of the city. But that turned out to be a mistake—the banner of one Sigor nobleman had looked a bit too much like the banner of Duke Lukas of Severn. After giving his troops the evening off, he washed and shaved in a stream. He put on one of his favorite old doublets—green with silver accents—and a pair of black riding trousers he had been told were flattering. Then he walked into the city, because he wasn’t sure if there would be space for his horse at the castle stable.
Rather than having the party in the great hall, the princess had elected to use the family parlor on the second floor. It was a smaller and brighter room, with tapestries and painted murals on the walls. Two long tables had been set out along one wall, with simple bread and cold meats, along with a large barrel of ale and a few bottles of whiskey. Instead of a large troupe of minstrels, music for the dance was being provided by three young knights from the princess’s “set” who played the lute, the violin, and the recorder.
Queen Rohesia sat near the door, greeting all the guests as they came in. “Sir Alfred, how nice to see you,” she said, beaming. “I trust we didn’t take you away from your army duties.”
He glanced to his right and looked out the tall leaded glass windows into the gathering dusk. Across the river in the deeper shadows of the Bishop’s Forest, he could see tiny lights twinkling. Watchfires, perhaps? And who had made them?
No, he wasn’t on duty now. If the enemy was back in Chickwell, that was someone else’s responsibility tonight.
Tearing his eyes away, he bowed to the queen. “Your majesty, I am entirely at your disposal this evening.”
“Not at my disposal entirely, I hope,” she laughed. “It is Elwyn’s party, not mine.” She gestured toward the center of the room, where a dance was ending.
The princess, practically aglow in bright silver silk, dropped the arm of her partner and rushed over to the door. “Sir Alfred! How kind of you to come.”
He bowed low; she curtsied and then waved a hand at an upturned old helmet on a table by the queen. The inside had been cushioned with blue velvet, and there seemed to be quite a collection of gold and silver coins already.
“I don’t mean to suggest you have to pay to be admitted,” said the princess. “But if you could give a little, I would be ever so grateful. In fact,” she grinned, “I’m auctioning off the last dance of the evening with the birthday girl. I believe bidding is up to a full Crown.”
The queen said, “Your heart is in the right place, Elwyn, dear. But I’m not sure this is entirely proper.”
“It’s for a good cause,” said the princess, taking the queen’s hand and giving it an affectionate squeeze. “And it’s good fun.”
“Oh, very well,” said the queen with a smile. “If you insist.”
“I do.” Elwyn turned back to Alfred. “So what about it? What will you bid?”
He couldn’t look away. Her eyes were wide with expectation. Her lips were slightly parted in a tiny smile. There was no way he could let her down.
“Um...a full Crown, you say?” He looked in his purse, took out a gold Half Sovereign, and put it in her silk-gloved hand. “There you are.” He had just doubled the top bid.
She gave the coin a little kiss, then dropped it in the helmet. “You seem determined to win. I admire your confidence.”
They danced a volta and a reel together, then retired to the deep-cushioned seat in front of one of the high windows that had been thrown open to let in a little air. Lady Alicia Tynsdale and Sir Kyle Llamu, heir of the Earl of Garthdin, came over to say hello and share some excellent 30-year-old whiskey that Sir Kyle—in blatant violation of the ban on gifts—had brought from home.
For a few minutes, they talked about the siege and where enemy scouts had been seen recently. The princess seemed very well-informed, and asked intelligent questions that showed an intimate knowledge of the various roads and villages near the city. It occurred to Alfred that she would probably make a pretty good scout, if she weren’t a princess.
Then a little cohort of giggling young ladies arrived—Melanie Searle, Beulah Harper, Mirabelle Laurence, and Patricia Woolfe. They squealed about the princess’s dress and each other’s clothes, as well. The princess seemed more bemused by their enthusiasm than flattered, though.
At 10:30, the king offered a toast to “the best big sister a monarch has ever had,” and then retired to the royal suite with Princess Alice and their nurse. When the chimes in the city struck eleven, the older guests, like the queen and the captain general and Caedmon Aldred—drifted away to bed. The formal end of the party came at midnight, when Alfred was rewarded for his Half Sovereign donation with the official last dance.
“You’re staying around, aren’t you?” she whispered, as she moved gracefully through the figures at his side. “We’re having a party after the party—only a few select friends. You will stay, won’t you?”
He couldn’t very well say “no” after that. It was practically a royal command.
Soon, only a dozen people remained—Alfred and the princess, Melanie and her gaggle of young ladies, Kyle Llamu, Lord Rodger Cuthing, Sir Gregory Hollis, Sir William Kirkenwell, Sir Nicholas Gallen, and Sir Nathan Peel. First, at Melanie’s suggestion, they went down to the kitchens and found themselves some leftover pastries from supper. Then they went out into the courtyard of the castle to eat their snack and have a drink or two while admiring the stars.
It started well. Alfred pointed out the Odelandic constellations to the people in the group who didn’t know how to find them. Kyle Llamu and Patricia Woolfe recited some Immani poetry about the stars, to great acclaim. Then Melanie Searle sang a bawdy song with lyrics by Claudius, to much laughter, and the tone of the evening changed dramatically.
Soon, they were sitting on the steps of the chapel, bellowing out “The Fair Maid of Brawley” at the top of their lungs. Someone (Alfred was pretty sure it was Duke Robert) opened a window and shouted down for everyone to “Please shut up and go to bed,” which only drew hoots of derision from most of the party. Nonetheless, they moved inside the chapel, where Sir Nathan and Mirabelle Laurence read some of the memorial stones and made giggling comments about the ancient names and epitaphs.
“Perhaps we should go elsewhere,” suggested Alfred.
Princess Elwyn came over and took his arm. “I’m so glad you’re here, Alfred. So glad. I wouldn’t want to do this without you.”
“Do what, your royal highness?”
“Turn 24, obviously.”
She dragged him out into the hall, and for a moment they were alone in the shadows, and she pressed close to his side, breathing softly against his neck.
Then the rest of the group came piling out of the chapel, cheering and stumbling drunkenly into the two of them, forcing them apart again. They all tried to go to the library, but the lord privy seal, Baron Kenrick Colwinn—who happened to be another of the princess’s uncles—was in there trying to get some work done, and he yelled at them all to, “Please go to bed, for Finster’s sake!”
Alfred lingered in the library a minute after the rest of them left to apologize to Baron Colwinn.
“You’re older than the rest of that mob,” said the baron. “And you’re an army man. Try to exercise some discipline, would you? Especially on my niece. A lovely girl, but I’m afraid she needs it.”
“I’ll do my best, my lord,” said Alfred.
He found the group again up on the third floor in the Silver Parlor. They had a new bottle of whiskey. They drank until they decided to dance again. Then they danced until people were sick. The princess lost her supper all over an ancient tapestry, then had to be helped to the privy by Melanie Searle.
Alfred tried to be fair about this—he had done his share of drinking in the past. But he had started the evening impressed by the princess’s frugality and good sense. And now she was acting like the worst kind of rich, spoiled young aristocrat. He felt disappointed and embarrassed on her behalf.
After a few minutes listening to Rodger Cuthing and Gregory Hollis debate the finer points of raising hunting dogs, he decided he had seen enough. He excused himself and went in search of the princess so he could take his leave.
He wandered up and down the hall until he noticed a door open. It led to a privy, but it also led up to the top of the high, beautiful spindle of glass and pure magy known as the Leofe Tower. He looked in and heard what sounded like moans of distress, so he went up and around the spiraling staircase, expecting to find either the princess or Melanie Searle being sick.
Instead, he found them locked in a frantic embrace, panting and moaning, tugging at the laces of each other’s dresses. Princess Elwyn’s skirt parted with a sound of tearing fabric, and Alfred saw a flash of long, pale leg, toned by years of riding.
Stunned and appalled, he turned and hurried back down the stairs. He didn’t bother saying “good night” to the rest of the party. He had to get out of the castle.
The princess was “Thessalian”! He wondered how many other people were aware of that fact. Was it a secret only known to Elwyn herself and her lover? Or did the whole inner circle of court know?
He didn’t quite know what to think. On the one hand, it wasn’t really his business who the princess slept with. Except that she had been flirting with him recently. He didn’t think he was imagining that. She had definitely been flirting!
The truth of the matter hit him with sudden and devastating force. She didn’t care about him at all. She needed some eligible young man to hang on her arm so people wouldn’t guess her true proclivities. He was a mask—a part of her disguise—and nothing more.
“Oh, Finster’s balls,” he grumbled. “She’s using me as a ruse. And I’m letting her do it. I am so blasted gullible.”