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“What if it’s not true?”
Grigory looked up from the map. “What if what is not true?”
“What if Broderick isn’t really going to attack us from the southeast?” said Alfred.
He and the professor were standing at the intersection of Coleman and Wellard streets, just inside the southeastern gate of the city. A team of soldiers was practicing raising and lowering the huge iron portcullis, with much shouting and clanking and banging.
“Our source said the attack will be coming—”
“Yes, but what if the source was wrong? Or what if the source was lying?” This question had kept Alfred awake at night. Two days earlier, the council and the captain general had enthusiastically approved Grigory’s plan. But the plan was only as good as the intelligence it was based upon.
“We need to protect this gate and this side of the wall,” Alfred continued. “And we have to protect the bridge. And we’ve still got all those troops guarding the road up to Bullsley.”
He had been thinking about the road to Bullsley a lot. Opening that route had been his great triumph, but keeping it open required five whole regiments—enough men to guard the entire city wall, plus the village of Hutton, the two bridges, and the north bank of the river.
“I have faith our information is right,” said Grigory. “Could we take a walk outside the gate? I would like a close look at the ground.”
As soon as the soldiers had raised the portcullis again, Alfred led the professor through. The officer in charge of the gate quickly detailed a sergeant and four soldiers to follow after them. Alfred didn’t think this was strictly necessary, but he understood the precaution.
It felt strange to be outside the walls on foot, with the big gatehouse behind him and empty fields stretching for a mile or more in every direction. All the regiments that had been camped in this area had been moved inside the city. Their tents were set up along the entire length of Wellard Street now, much to the chagrin of the inhabitants.
Snow had fallen in the night, but only a light dusting—not enough to cover the gray stubble where the grain had been harvested. All that grain was in Sir Presley Kemp’s granaries now, down by the river. Birds still picked forlornly at the ground, however. They rose in dense little flocks now and again, circling the city and settling down somewhere else to try again.
Alfred kept his eyes on the tree line, a mile south of the gate. That was the extreme northwestern edge of Alfgar Wood, and he knew Gramiren scouts were probably in there somewhere. They might be watching him and Grigory at this very moment, in fact.
The professor had wandered a few paces away and knelt down to handle some clods of snow-covered earth. “The ground is frozen,” he observed. “Much better for moving heavy siege engines.”
Sobol turned right, following the wall and checking the ground as he went. The fields south of Leornian ran down to the city and the river with a gentle slope, worn smooth by thousands of years of farming.
“This is perfect land for a cavalry charge,” Alfred observed.
Perfect land, too, for archers to shoot down that cavalry charge, if only the Sigors had enough archers. But again, most of them were up north, guarding the road to Bullsley.
“I think I might know some ways to stop cavalry here,” said Grigory. “But I will need to do some tests and draw up some plans first.”
By this time, they had reached the southern gate of the city, and to their surprise, Presley Kemp was waiting for them on horseback. “There you are!” he said, waving. “I looked for you at the southeast gate, and they told me you had walked this way.”
Alfred sent the soldiers back to the southeastern gate, while Grigory helped Presley down from his horse. They shared a quick, discreet little kiss that only Alfred saw.
They headed toward Docent Lane and the apartment where Presley and Grigory were staying. Presley had brought a bag of rolls from Crane’s Bakery, and between the three of them, they finished the entire bag on the short walk.
At the door of their building, Presley and Grigory invited Alfred in for a cup of tea “or something stronger,” but Alfred had a feeling they were offering only out of politeness. Domina Stylianos was off riding somewhere, and they were probably eager to have a little time to themselves. He continued on to the Bocburg, feeling a little lonesome and wondering if Princess Elwyn might be interested in taking another ride around town.
He was still trying to figure out her various moods. Sometimes, like during their last ride together, she gave him her full and undivided attention. She looked at him as if he were the smartest, most capable, and most interesting man she had ever met. Other times, she seemed oddly distracted. On occasion, he could sense a vast reserve of resentment and anger seething away in her, and he worried she was always on the verge of releasing that anger at him.
He walked in the front gate of the Bocburg as the bells of the chapel rang. A group of officers who were loitering on the outer steps of the chapel turned and headed in. Alfred remembered that the Bishop of Pinshire had planned a special “Service of Supplication” for the upcoming battle, since it was Sunday afternoon. In all likelihood, the princess was there, along with Queen Rohesia and the king and Duke Robert.
“I should probably be there,” thought Alfred. But he didn’t want to walk in late. He probably had some work he could do up in his office.
On the first flight of stairs, however, he ran into Princess Elwyn coming down. She had on a dark green wool riding dress and a white fur hat, as if she were planning on going out somewhere, rather than to the chapel.
“Oh, hello!” she said, her whole face brightening. “You’re skipping the service, too, are you?”
“I...I didn’t want to come in late and disturb everyone,” he said.
“That’s a good excuse. I’ll use that one, too, if we get caught. Are you going up to your office?”
“Yes, but only because I thought you would be in the chapel already. I was going to ask if you wanted to go riding.”
Her face reddened slightly. “Really, because...um, I was going to look for you, too.”
The way she said that made him shiver a little. He led the way back downstairs, and they hurried across the courtyard, hoping no one would look out the chapel windows and see them.
When they got into the stable, they both started laughing. A servant came over to ask if he could saddle horses for them, but Elwyn waved him off, giggling, and told him, “We’ll take care of it, thank you.”
As they headed down the long row of horse stalls, into the quiet, hay-scented darkness, she walked closer to him. She tilted her head slightly, so he could barely see her bright blue eyes under the pale fur of her cap. “My mother said I should speak to you,” she whispered.
“Did she? Is it something about the war?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. She gives good advice, sometimes. It’s always a surprise when she does.”
They had reached the darkest corner of the stable, beyond the last occupied stall, next to the open door of a small tack room. The princess rubbed her hands together and shivered. Was she nervous or cold? Alfred took a chance and reached for her hands. She seemed to like it when he wrapped them up in his own.
“What did your mother—”
“Let’s not talk about her,” the princess said. “I want to talk to you, except...I’m not very good with words sometimes, Alfred. I like you a great deal, you know.”
“You like me?” He could feel his heart booming away in his chest. It was a wonder she couldn’t hear it, or at least feel it. She was so close now.
“Yes. A great deal. More than I’ve liked anyone in a long time.” She bowed her head, and he felt her lips brush the back of his hand.
He felt complete elation for a few moments. This was so much more than he could have hoped for. But then he remembered Melanie Searle, and a tiny, unpleasant part of him wanted to ask her how many times she had made this little speech to someone. He let her hands drop and took a couple steps back.
“I hold you in the highest regard, as well, your royal highness. If we are going to finish our ride before it gets dark, however, we should start saddling the—”
“You don’t believe me,” she said. “It seems words are not enough. So, let me show you.” She rushed forward, and before he could stop her, she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him.
There was nothing chaste or innocent about the kiss, heedless of any sense of propriety, full of need and longing. She only let him go after biting his lower lip.
He wanted her like he had never wanted anyone, but she was a princess, and there were rules about this sort of thing.
“My lady, this is very pleasant, but are you sure it’s entirely proper to—”
“Fuck propriety,” she said, dragging him into the tack room.
She kissed him again, then closed the door. There was very little light, but he could see the gleam in her eye as she started tugging at the laces of his trousers. He let out a long, shuddering sigh as she wrapped her fingers around and started stroking him.
“Do you believe me now?” she whispered.
He couldn’t reply. His whole mind, for those few seconds, was taken up with the feeling of her fingertips and the light brush of her nails.
“What about this?” She sank to her knees and swallowed him whole.
He let out a little whimper at the feeling of it—her lips and her tongue and the steady, pulsing motion. He was already so close, so embarrassingly close. But she couldn’t be doing this. Not for him. Not so soon, when they hardly even knew each other.
“My lady, I.... My lady....” He gritted his teeth, looking into the dusty darkness overhead at the shadowy shapes of bridles and reins and saddles and stirrups. It didn’t help. He put a hand to her head, feeling her braids, trying to find the strength in himself to push her away. “Elwyn!” he gasped. “Elwyn, I’m going to....”
She grabbed his hand and twisted her fingers tightly around his as he reached his climax. He couldn’t have stopped her at that point, even if he had wanted to. The release surged through him, and she kept going, as if determined to drain him dry, until his legs wobbled, and he sank back against the wall.
Looking down, he saw her kneeling there, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe her lips and chin. Entirely unbidden, the vision came to his mind of her drunk at a party, throwing up on a tapestry.
“I shouldn’t have let her do that,” he thought, suddenly horrified with himself. “She trusts me. The queen trusts me. They trust me to do the right thing, and I’m pretty sure this wasn’t it.”
She looked up with watery eyes and grinned. “Do you believe me now?”
He awkwardly tucked himself away and laced up his trousers. “I don’t know what to say.”
She stood, and he could see that she had caught the slight tone of disgust in his voice. “Did I do something wrong?” Even in the dark, he could see the color rise in her cheeks. “I...I haven’t had much practice, but it seemed like everything went...well.” Her shoulders slumped a bit, and her eyes fell to the wadded-up handkerchief in her hand.
“That was...that was...um...” He had to say something. “Um, thank you, your royal highness. If you’ll excuse me, I really do have some work I need to do.”
He hurried away as fast as he could, mortified by what he had done. Or rather, by what he had allowed to happen. It was one of the biggest mistakes of his entire life. A minute later, however, when he got up to the Silver Parlor, he realized that leaving her there that way—embarrassed, alone, and humiliated—was much, much worse. But by then, it was too late to go back.