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From atop the gatehouse, Robert watched as Grigory’s engineering students put the finishing touches on the cavalry traps. Men were digging a trench in the middle of the road, as well, about twenty feet from the gatehouse, where it would stop anyone from trying to take the gate down with a battering ram.
Behind him, he heard a clatter of steel on stone and a sudden burst of Immani profanity. He turned to offer Intira a hand up, but she shook her head and stood on her own, muttering and glaring at her sword. Her empty left sleeve had been pinned back.
“You can go ahead and say it,” she said.
“Say what?”
“What everyone always says: ‘At least it wasn’t your sword arm.’ Except that everyone forgets losing an arm affects your balance.”
“That’s very true,” said Robert.
“And good luck drawing a bow one-handed.”
Intira tried to sheath her sword and got exasperated as the scabbard kept moving. After a minute, she handed the blade to Robert with a defeated little sigh, and he slid it into the sheath for her.
“Thank you,” she said. “Apparently I’ll be carrying messages for Sir Alfred and the queen. I can’t believe there’s going to be a battle, and I’m going to be stuck like this.”
“We could ask Caedmon to—”
“Lord Aldred has better things to do right now, I imagine,” Intira snapped. “And anyway, he shouldn’t even have to repair my arm. I can’t believe William Aitken was so careless in using that gemstone.”
“He must have thought his life was—”
“He could have found a different way to kill that Slorcus fellow, though, damn it all. Poor Miles Richards is dead now. You say William is a seasoned professional, but then he makes a mistake like this. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” She narrowed her eyes and looked at Robert, nodding slowly.
“Makes you wonder about what?” he asked.
“If it was really a mistake. Maybe he’s had a better offer.”
Robert shivered. “I certainly hope not.”
If William was lying about why he used the stone, then he could be lying about where the attack was coming, as well. And in that case, all the work that Grigory and Sir Alfred had done to prepare for an attack from the southeast would be for nothing.
“Well, shit,” Robert added. “Listen, how well do you think you could ride now?”
“Ride? I can ride fine. Getting on and off will be a bit tricky. And don’t ask me to fight. Why do you ask?”
“I think we ought to double-check that the Gramirens aren’t massing forces somewhere else.”
She understood instantly. “In case William is lying. Of course. Let’s go.”
They hurried to the Bocburg, where Sir Alfred approved their mission. But the queen happened to be with him, and said she “wouldn’t hear of” Intira riding out on a scouting mission alone when she couldn’t properly defend herself. So Intira had to stay behind, running little errands for the queen, while Robert rode off to the northwest of the city, and two other scouts checked to the southwest and the northeast.
He trotted along little farm lanes and through lingering snow drifts under a darkening gray sky. He didn’t relish being out in the countryside if a storm hit, but someone had to check William’s information one last time, just to be sure.
Robert didn’t like the idea that William would betray them. On the one hand, William was a brutal and merciless killer. But the man also had a code, of sorts. There were things he absolutely would never do, like harm children. That, according to Intira, had been William’s breaking point—when Robert’s half-brother, Broderick Gramiren, had ordered him to kill little King Edwin. Well, that plus the fact that Robert had dropped a pretty obvious hint that he knew where William’s family lived.
So now William’s wife and son lived under Immani protection. There was a threat implied there, too, even if kinder and gentler. The Immani could remove that protection anytime if they were displeased with William’s services.
And suppose some other Gramiren agent—Ned Slorcus, perhaps, or someone like him—had discovered where the Immani were keeping William’s family. What would William do to protect them from Broderick Gramiren? Would he agree to pass false information to the Sigor army? Of course he would. He wouldn’t even hesitate.
“To be honest,” thought Robert, “I couldn’t even blame him.”
The sky opened and a cold, relentless drizzle started as he passed the crossroads where Intira had taken him to see William. No one was there, although Robert had half expected William to be waiting to give one last warning. Robert hurried on, barely dodging an enemy patrol. But so far, he hadn’t seen any large concentrations of troops.
Four hours went by, and he saw barely any soldiers at all, of either side. He returned to the Bocburg still nervous, still feeling he hadn’t looked carefully enough or ridden far enough. But when he pointed out where he had scouted on the map, Sir Alfred said he had been “very thorough.”
“The other scouts say the same,” said Sir Alfred. “It looks as if we can trust our informant, after all.”
“Let’s hope so, sir,” said Robert. In his mind, he added, “Or else we’re all fucked.”
***
THE RAIN HAD SLOWED to a frigid drizzle by the time Alfred left the palace and headed across the courtyard to the armory. At the end of the latest council meeting, the queen had told him to “Please get some rest,” but he couldn’t sleep. He’d been living on coffee and strong tea for two days now, and he figured one more late night couldn’t hurt.
He had a million problems jostling around in his mind, begging for attention. Would Grigory’s clever traps work? Was the information from Intira’s source correct? Had they really managed to outwit Broderick Gramiren for once? What would he do if they lost the gatehouse? Where would they fall back to? And after that, where would they fall back the second time? Could Sir Presley really get enough food to the troops during the battle? Did they have enough horses? What about the archers? Would there be enough archers? Would they have enough arrows?
But when he stopped and sat still for too long, his mind didn’t concentrate on any of those vital questions. It focused on Princess Elwyn. The beautiful princess, so strong and self-assured, but with a hard, brittle core. So lovely and fragile at the oddest times.
He still couldn’t quite believe what she had done in the stable. Of course it had been amazing, and just thinking about it made him hard. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he ought to have stopped her. Someday she would regret this, and he wished he could tell her that without making it sound like a rejection.
Their encounter in the stable had been on Sunday. Now it was Thursday, and the battle would be tomorrow, and he had barely spoken two words to her since it had happened. That, too, was a kind of rejection, and it probably hurt worse than if he had said, “I don’t like you” straight to her face.
Except that he did like her. He thought he might even love her, in fact. But now she probably hated him, so it didn’t matter anymore. And he had a job to do, so he had to let it go and concentrate on the war.
He got to the armory, shook the rain from his cloak, and warmed his hands by the little fire in the guardroom. After a few words with the man on duty there, he went into the next room, through the long ranks of pikes and poleaxes in huge wooden racks. Then came racks of armor and crossbows. Some of these were brand new. Others had been gathered from distant estates by Sir Presley Kemp, thanks to the thin lifeline through Bullsley and Redlingham.
The last room housed longbows, and he heard someone in there, stacking quivers of arrows. He looked in to greet this conscientious soldier working late and was surprised to find Princess Elwyn, of all people.
She met his eyes and almost dropped the quiver she had in her hands. Her mouth formed a perfect “O” of surprise, and then she whispered, “Oh, shit.”
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, starting to turn around.
“There’s no bother at all,” she said stiffly, setting down the arrows. “You have as much right to be here as anyone else. I should be going.” She started heading down the nearest row between some shields.
“You don’t need to go,” he said. Then, louder, he added, “Also, that door doesn’t work.”
He heard her trying to open it, then muttering profanity. She came back toward him, hands on her hips.
“Fine, then. Let me out of here, and I won’t trouble you again.”
“It’s no trouble,” he said, not moving aside. “I should have spoken to you before now. I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what, Sir Alfred?”
“For...um...leaving after...after we had that moment in the stable.” He shut the door behind them.
“After I sucked your cock?” She glared at him. “I’m sorry you found the experience so offensive.”
“That’s what I mean. I wasn’t offended at all.”
“Oh. I see.” With a sneer, she turned on her heel and walked back past the stacks of quivers and bows.
“You see what, exactly?”
Set in an alcove under a window, there was a workbench with various tools and stacks of arrowheads and broken chainmail. She turned there to face him, leaning back against the table and crossing her arms. “You’re about to go into battle, and now you want me to do it again. Is that it? I’m not good enough for everyday, but when you think you might die, I’m your last resort.”
“That’s not it at all,” he said, coming closer.
“So I’m your first resort? How flattering.” The sarcasm drained out of her voice, and she whispered, “Lucky me.”
“I fucked up. I admit it. I’m sorry. It’s just that...well, you took me by surprise. I didn’t want you to feel like you had made a mistake.”
“Well, are you? A mistake, I mean.” She reached out and took hold of the edge of his cloak, pulling him even closer.
“I’m trying not to be.” He put a hand on her cheek, and she closed her eyes, leaning against his palm. He bent down and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight.
“And you don’t think I’m a mistake, either?” she whispered against his neck.
“No.”
“Then prove it. Make me believe it, too.”
Picking her suddenly up, he set her on the edge of the table. Then he sank to his knees and began lifting her skirts. “I’m going to do what I ought to have done on Sunday.”
He heard her gasp as he pulled down her underclothes and put his head between her long, lean thighs. He hadn’t done this in a very long time, but it came back to him rather quickly. He knew he’d found the right spot when she whimpered, and her whole body shook, and she fell back on the table, scattering bits of broken chainmail all over the floor.
***
EVERY MAN IN LEORNIAN had brought his spare jackets and trousers to the Bocburg before heading to the southeast gate. These clothes were then placed on the bodies of Leornian’s women with their long hair tucked under caps, or in many cases, simply cut off to complete the ruse that they were men. These women then hurried off to the western wall where sense would dictate the Sigors should expect Broderick’s forces to attack. When the enemy scouts looked at that section of wall, they would see it well “manned,” and assume their surprise attack on the Wellard Gate on the southeast side was still a surprise.
At least that was the hope. When Presley stood in the Bocburg great hall that morning and watched these slender girls and their mothers bustle off, he prayed they were right about the coming attack. If not, we are sending sparsely armed, untrained women to their deaths. But Robert Tynsdale assured us that Broderick’s forces are not massing in the west. May that remain the case.
The women posing as soldiers were only one deception, though. And Presley headed across town to see the other work of optical illusion. Along the southeast where they expected the full force of Broderick’s might, Grigory had been busy in the night camouflaging the pits and buried stakes. He had also developed with the help of art instructors at the university a marvelous painting technique. They added metal and thick oak to reinforce the gate, but painted the surface to make it appear aged and fragile.
On top of the walls, great vats of boiling oil and boiling water waited to be dumped on the heads of anyone who made it past the trenches or tried to batter the reinforced gate. And curled up on the top of the wall in between these hot cauldrons were hundreds of archers with a dozen quivers each. Every other man had a small brazier and some rags, ready to set his arrows aflame.
Presley was amazed at Grigory’s clever and inventive work. In fact, his heart was fit to burst with pride that the man he loved was going to save the city of his birth. Although, he was not merely there to admire Grigory’s handiwork. He was also checking that cold ham and cheese along with waterskins were making it to every man on or near the wall. He directed the wagons and the pages and other boys carrying supplies for a time until all was running smoothly, at which point he went off to find Grigory.
Much as Presley had been doing, Grigory was directing traffic, as it were, only he was handling more than supply boys. He and Alfred together were moving around the longbowmen who would stand in the streets and shoot over the wall. Then there were crossbowmen and their crankers to be positioned. And pikemen, too, in case the enemy managed to get through the gate. Then the bravest men—the ones who would hide behind the taverns and houses leading up the road to the gate so that they might spring Grigory’s traps—were heading out.
To help keep everyone straight, the archers had crescent moons drawn on their sleeves, while support members, like crankers and errand boys, had stars. It was all remarkably organized. But I would expect no less from Grigory.
To be blunt, Grigory had done everything right, and the men happily followed his orders. Meanwhile, Alfred was giving everyone courage with a solid smile and a slap to the back. All that was required now was for Lawrence to not fuck up his part.
In other words, it could all still go horribly wrong.
“Everything looks good,” Presley said to Grigory, resting a hand on his shoulder for a minute and wishing he could kiss this wonderful man.
“I think we are ready,” Grigory said, rubbing his tired eyes. “The last of the arrows are—”
A blast from a horn in the distance cut off the end of Grigory’s thought.
“It is time,” Alfred whispered, joining them.
“Go back to the castle,” Grigory said, squeezing the hand Presley had left there. “You have done what you need to here.”
Alfred looked away awkwardly, and Presley took the opportunity to lean close to Grigory and whisper, “What if I said I need to be wherever you are?”
“Ready arrows!” came the call from the top of the wall, and as one, rank upon rank of longbowmen around them notched arrows to strings.
“Grigory, we need to get up on the wall,” said Alfred.
“I love you,” Presley whispered in Immani so that none of the soldiers nearby, save Alfred, would likely understand him.
“And I love you,” Grigory answered in the same language.
Te amo. Te quoque amo.
“Loose!” hollered the same voice from the top of the wall. The battle had begun.
Grigory and Alfred jogged up the stairs leading to the top of the wall where they would be able to follow and command the battle. A part of Presley desperately wished to stand at Grigory’s side, longed to see the men hidden outside the wall suddenly pull the blankets covered in leaves off the top of the pits when the cavalry arrived. He wanted to stay and see if Lawrence’s cavalry regiments really did their part, flying down through the eastern woods to hit Broderick’s flank when he was supposed to. But now that he had seen the food delivered, he belonged back up at the Bocburg.
He found his horse and rode through the streets as swiftly as possible.