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In spite of the freezing rain, King Broderick stayed on his horse at the intersection of the Champsford and Bestandan roads. His squires and staff officers kept trying to get him to come inside the tent they had set up a few yards away at the edge of the village of Landersted, but the king refused. He sat there as the ragged, wounded, and dispirited remnants of General Rath’s assault force returned to their camp.
He waved to each company or squadron, and many times he addressed the surviving officers by name. Often, the men would give him an exhausted cheer, and the officers would raise their swords in salute and say, “Let us hit them again, your majesty!”
The king would smile and tell them, “Later perhaps, boys. For now, have some food and ale on me!”
William watched the king do this for more than two hours. And then, when the last of the survivors had returned, with General Rath riding at the very tail end of the column, the king went to the hospital tents and spoke with the wounded. He did not seem wearied or depressed by this. If anything, he seemed to draw strength from it, and he left the last tent looking more alive and awake than he had all day.
The mood in the command tent was quite different. The commanders looked as if they were only holding themselves together with sheer willpower. Many of the squires and staff officers had fallen asleep on the ground or in folding chairs or on supply crates. Nearly everyone was covered in mud and grime, still wearing the clothes and armor they had worn yesterday at the battle.
At the far end of the tent, by a large map table, General Rath was huddling with some of the younger commanders, like Baron Strudwick and the Earl of Kelwinn. They seemed to be planning how to establish defensive lines in case the Sigors decided to launch a sortie from Leornian. The king went over to join this group.
At the closer end of the tent, Duchess Flora of Keneburg and Queen Muriel were pouring drinks for a select group of senior commanders and privy councilors, like Baron “Teddy” Musgrove, the Earl of Grieffenberg, and the Bishop of Keneshire.
William spotted an old friend, Vincent Carling, Earl of Hambledon, who waved him over and poured him some mulled wine. William asked him how things were going at headquarters since news of the defeat at the southeastern gate had come in.
“Rath had better look out,” whispered Vincent. “Duchess Flora thinks she can convince the king to replace him with her husband, Duke Hugh.”
As William and Vincent sipped their drinks, they watched a little drama play itself out in the tent. Rath left the map table and approached Duchess Flora’s group. But he spoke only to Teddy Musgrove, taking him aside for a private word. After a minute, Baron Musgrove went and fetched Queen Muriel, taking her over to speak with Rath. The queen listened, nodding and smiling, and then turned to look down the length of the tent at her husband. The king, drawn by some silent and private signal, immediately noticed that she was watching him, and strode calmly over to join her.
When Duchess Flora saw that the king was speaking with Rath and the queen and Musgrove, she realized that her opponent had stolen a march on her, and she hurried over to their group.
“Your majesty,” she began, “some of us were wondering if perhaps a change in the leadership structure of our army might be—”
“This hardly seems the time,” said the king pleasantly. “Rath retains my full confidence.” He clapped the general on the shoulder. “I certainly don’t blame him for what happened.” The king’s smile faded, and he looked slowly around, allowing each person in the room to wonder if they would be taking the blame, instead.
“Obviously, I wouldn’t dream of blaming Lord Rath,” said Duchess Flora quickly. “But is it really fair to place so much of a burden on the shoulders of one man? Perhaps his lordship could dedicate himself fully to planning and organization, while the more mundane tasks of field command could be assigned—on a temporary basis, of course—to someone else. That way, no one person would be responsible for so much.”
“One person is responsible,” said the king. “And that person is me. I am in command here. No one else.”
The duchess’s face reddened, and she started to apologize, but Queen Muriel interrupted her. “We are all so weary now,” said the queen. “These have been such taxing days for all of us. I’m sure dear Flora doesn’t mean to question your ability to command, darling. Do you, Flora?”
“Um...of course not,” said the duchess. “I simply meant—”
“Why don’t we go to my tent?” simpered the queen. “This must all be such a trial, particularly at your age, Flora. Not that I think you’re old, of course. No one would ever call you ‘old.’ But let’s go to my tent, and you can tell me all about your children. I haven’t heard what they’re up to lately.”
The duchess, still looking a bit confused, allowed herself to be led from the command tent by the queen, with several ladies-in-waiting following along behind. William was quite impressed. At least for the time being, the queen had neutralized Flora’s threat to Rath as effectively as if she had put a knife in the duchess’s back.
Teddy Musgrove grinned and winked at Rath. They bowed slightly to each other, and then Musgrove followed the queen and Flora out of the tent.
Rath returned to the map table, and the king joined him there for a minute or two. But then the king wandered back down to where William was sitting with Earl Vincent.
“Join me outside in a minute,” Broderick whispered. Then he slowly circled the tent, shaking hands, slapping backs, and telling all the remaining commanders some variation on, “We’ll get them next time.”
Vincent leaned close to William and said, “I’m going to guess the king’s invitation didn’t include me.” He held out a hand. “Let’s have a drink when we get back to Bestandan tomorrow.”
William regarded his old friend for a moment. Vincent was the son of the nobleman for whom William had served as squire, and he had actually done most of the teaching about weapons and chivalry. Vincent was the man who had shown William what it meant to be a knight. William found it a bit embarrassing that Vincent continued to be his friend, even after William had violated almost every precept of chivalry he had ever been taught.
If William had believed in confession—which he didn’t—then he might have been tempted to confess to Vincent. He might have said, “This battle was my fault. I’m the reason this all happened. I killed all those boys who are frozen in the mud outside the southeastern gate of Leornian.” But not even Vincent would have been able to understand why he’d done it, so William kept his confession to himself.
Instead, he smiled, shook Vincent’s hand, and said, “Sure. There are at least a couple taverns that haven’t burned down yet.”
He left Vincent and slipped outside, pulling up his hood against the freezing rain that was rapidly turning to snow. All around him, in the early evening darkness, he could see watchfires and cooking fires and the glow of lanterns in warm, cozy tents.
Not for the first time, William wondered what his life would have been like if he’d stayed an ordinary knight with a lance and a sword and a charger. He would be in one of those tents right now, maybe thinking about friends he’d lost in the battle yesterday. Maybe thinking about home. Maybe thinking about some tavern girl in Bestandan he wanted to visit tomorrow.
He couldn’t be one of them—not now, and probably not ever. He would have had to be a different sort of man than he was. Frankly, he thought most of those fellows were idiots, and while part of him envied their simple satisfaction at their lot in life, he was heartily glad he wasn’t that stupid.
They believed they were doing the right thing, because they were following their king’s orders, in accordance with the will of Earstien. But the Sigors thought they were following Earstien’s will, too. And as for the king, those fellows in their warm tents didn’t know what William knew, which was that King Broderick cared as much for their lives as he would for a moth around his lantern.
The gold-embroidered flap of the command tent drew back, and William recognized the tall, broad-shouldered form of the king. A few moments later, Broderick was at his side.
“Walk with me,” the king said.
They started making a long circuit around the camp, in the muddy, half-frozen lane between the tents and the outer pickets, where no one was close enough to hear.
“Did you see how Rath went to Musgrove to plead his case?” asked the king.
“Yes, your majesty.”
“They’re brothers-in-law, you know.”
“Yes, sir. I did know that.”
That had been one of the queen’s “little projects” around court—pairing up Musgrove’s sister (who didn’t like the idea of sex with anyone) with Rath (who liked having sex with men). They had both done their duty and produced a family, which had likely surprised most of their friends, but not the queen.
The king scowled. “Have you been following Musgrove, like I asked?”
In truth, William had been too busy, but before he had to admit that, the king threw up his hands and said, “Never mind. It doesn’t even matter. Musgrove is Muriel’s little pet, and now apparently she’s taking an interest in Rath, too. I swear, William. Family is a giant pain in the ass.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“I always forget that you believe in wedded bliss. You don’t know how lucky you are, William.”
“I think I do, sir.”
“Lady Jorunn is no better. She’s the one who brought Rath here to begin with. Do you know what my wife says? She says Jorunn is here as part of some long-simmering feud with her ‘friend’ and ‘mentor,’ Caedmon Aldred. Muriel thinks Jorunn wants to show Diernemynster that she is Caedmon’s equal. Jorunn is desperate for some spectacular victory that proves her worth. Which is an interesting theory, if you’re inclined to believe what Muriel says about Jorunn.”
“I see, sir,” said William carefully.
“The Sigors were ready for us,” said the king.
Caught off guard by the sudden change in topic, William said, “Um, yes, sir. That’s what I’ve heard, sir.”
“There is no way they should have known we were attacking from the southeast. Rath kept his plans secret until almost the very last minute.”
“Yes, sir.” William could barely raise his voice above a whisper. How much did the king know? How much had he managed to guess?
“And yet, they knew we were coming. Lawrence Swithin wouldn’t know his ass from his elbow, and he certainly didn’t build all those clever little traps.”
“Indeed, sir.”
The king smacked a fist into his other palm. “That was Grigory Sobol’s doing, I’ll wager. And to think that twenty years ago, I helped arrange for that fellow to take classes at Leornian University. The preosts say that we pay for our sins, but in my experience, we pay more for our good deeds. Blast it all.”
William nodded but remained silent.
“They didn’t build those traps everywhere,” Broderick went on. “They couldn’t have. They must have built them in just those few acres around the gatehouse, and they did it in only a few days. So, they knew where we were attacking before most of our own men knew.”
The king stopped, head bowed and silhouetted in the light of a distant lamp, as little flakes of snow and ice gathered in his hair and cloak. After a few moments, he turned and spoke again. “I’m afraid there’s no other explanation, William. We have a mole in our headquarters.”
William glanced around at the lights of the camp and the watchfires beyond. If he made a run for it now, could he get away? Probably not. Forcing himself to stay calm, he said, “Do you really think so, sir?”
“It’s fucking obvious. Someone had to pass along Rath’s plans to Lawrence Swithin. It had to have been someone on my staff or Rath’s. Someone who is around all the time and no one would suspect. I don’t trust anyone. Not Rath, not Musgrove, not Flora. Not even my own fucking wife.” The king leaned forward and grabbed the scarf around William’s neck. “And you, William...,” he growled.
“Y-yes, sir?”
“I want you to find the mole.” He dropped the scarf and patted William’s cheek. “Keep it quiet. Do what you have to. Find our traitor, and then kill him.”