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From his seat, Lawrence could look straight out the tent flap and see the River Basing, lined with honeysuckles and willows. A few miles north of here, the little stream emptied into the Upper Trahern. And a short ride west of there, the old stone bridge led into the great city of Keelweard. It was all so close, and he couldn’t help gloating a bit, at least inside, at the thought that they’d caught the Gramiren forces completely by surprise. The scouts said the way was clear. No enemy patrols at all. Broderick the Black was getting complacent now. Time to cut him down to size.
Not everyone in the command tent was quite so sanguine. Duke Hugh drummed his fingers on the map table and grumbled, “We’re too late. We should drive right at the city. None of this sneaking around.”
Flora’s husband had been like this for days now. He kept making cryptic comments about “dallying” along the way, until Lawrence began to worry he wasn’t quite so accepting of his wife’s infidelities as she said he was. Not that Lawrence would have blamed the man. If Veronica were still alive, and she was fucking some fellow, and then she wanted the three of them to sit down together, then Lawrence would have called the bastard out and run him through.
Flora put a hand on her husband’s arm. “Hugh, darling, we’ve gone over this before. We have our plan, and it’s too late to change anything now.” She smiled at Lawrence. “And it’s a very good plan, too, I think.”
“Damn straight,” said Lawrence. They had, indeed, discussed this before, but to be on the safe side, he ran over all of it again. Four columns, crossing the river at four points. Duke Robert Dryhten of Leornian, seated to his right, had brought hundreds of small boats downstream for this. And there was the bridge, too, of course.
“I don’t like this notion of dividing our forces,” said Hugh. Behind him, his sons Pedr and Andras nodded.
“We will only divide temporarily,” Lawrence said. “We’ll all come together, besieging the besiegers, and then we’ll send up a flag for Duke Herbert to make a sortie.” He flipped through the stack of parchment in front of him. “It’s all on...er, page seven, if you’d care to read it. There’s more detail in the footnotes, of course.”
“Right,” sighed Hugh. “The footnotes. Somehow I neglected to read the fine print.”
The meeting broke up soon after that, with Duke Hugh and Duke Robert of Leornian bowing to Lawrence as they left the tent. He couldn’t help smiling about that. Socially, they outranked him. But he was the captain general, and on campaign, they answered to him. Their sons bowed, too, and soon he was left alone in the tent with Flora.
“So you think my plan is ‘very good,’ do you?” he asked.
She was slumped over in her chair, studying the map. “No. Actually, I agree with Hugh. I think it’s far too complicated.” She looked up and smiled. “But it’s too late to change it now. Come here, my dear.”
“My plan is brilliant,” he said, going over and running a hand through her hair.
“After we win, darling, you can feel free to rub it in all you want.”
“And what about rubbing it in now?”
She took ahold of the laces of his trousers. “Look at you. On the eve of battle, and not even in your armor yet. You should be ashamed.” Then she dropped to her knees, drew him out, and wrapped her lips around him.
Afterward, she helped him into his armor. He had squires, of course, but Flora knew a lot more about armor than most men did. Earstien, what a woman! She was the only duchess in Myrcia who held the title in her own right, and she was more of a soldier than most of the men he knew. Did Hugh really appreciate what he had in this woman? Probably not. The man barely seemed alive. At court, everyone used to say that Flora kept Hugh’s balls in a jar by the bed, so she could give them back whenever she wanted another baby. A nasty thing to say, but pretty accurate, all the same.
In minutes, she had him suited up perfectly. He flexed his arms, twisted this way and that to test it, but everything was right. All the mail hung as it should; all the straps and buckles were squared away and tucked in. His sword sat perfectly on his hip—he put out his hand, and there was the hilt, exactly where it should be. His squires could never have managed it half so well.
“You’re a marvel,” he told her. “Marry me.”
She laughed. “I’ve got a husband already. And you want to marry Morwen, remember?”
“Morwen is a frigid virgin. I want you. If the bishop can get Morwen out of her vows, he can give you a divorce, too.”
“I don’t think so.” Flora tapped him on the nose. “You’re a lovely boy, Lawrence my darling, but you’re not Hugh. Sorry.” Then she turned and left the tent, swishing her hips in her close-fitting riding dress.
He adjusted his codpiece slightly and followed after her.
Duke Hugh had already left, curving west with his column of twelve hundred men. The Duke of Leornian was riding out now, heading to the eastern crossing point with fourteen hundred men. His grace raised his sword in salute as he trotted past, and Lawrence saluted him, in turn. The relentless thunder of the mounted knights and the clatter of the spears and pikes of the infantry echoed on and on.
“Shall we, then?” asked Flora brightly.
His division and hers would march almost as far as the river together. Then he would take his men down to the shore and the small watercraft, while she would cross the old stone bridge. Anyone who didn’t know warfare might have assumed this was an act of chivalry on his part—letting the girl use the bridge, while the men crossed in boats. In fact, it was a recognition of her prowess as a battlefield commander. The Gramirens held the bridge, and they would hold it to the death. But Lawrence had confidence that Flora could hammer her way through and into the city.
They rode side by side down the long, dusty lanes, between snug little farms and hedgerows and orchards. Lawrence felt a surge of pride. This was part of his earldom—a tiny eastern sliver of his lands. At least, they were his ancestral lands, in theory. Broderick the Black, the false king they were marching to meet now, had declared the estates forfeit to the crown. And, to be blunt, Lawrence had never spent much time governing his earldom. It was a peaceful country that didn’t need or want much government. The only time he’d ever been out here was to attend a fair, or dedicate a church, or something like that. He would show up, smile, and wave. And then place a plaque, or crown the May Queen, or give the ribbon for the fair’s Fattest Hog. Even so, it was nice to think that if he died today, he had finally come home.
He might die today. But he didn’t think he would. He’d trained with sword and spear and pike and bow all his life. He’d learned from the old Duke of Leornian—Duke Robert’s father, one of the best swordsmen in Myrcia. He knew he could take any man in a duel. But real combat wasn’t a duel or a joust. There was no telling what might happen. Lawrence closed his eyes and offered up a prayer. If he died, he knew he would die for Earstien, and for his family, and most of all for his young nephew, the rightful King of Myrcia. And that would be something, wouldn’t it?
He turned to Flora. “Even if we lose, this will be worth a song, don’t you think?”
She laughed. “I hope not. Songs about battles are always so tedious. Everyone prefers ‘The Fair Maid of Brawley.’”
Ahead of them the high, spindly trees parted, and there was a long straight stretch of road, already rippling and hazy in the morning heat. There was a gray smudge on the horizon, too, though, and Lawrence worried it might be a rain cloud. This late in the summer, thunderstorms came rolling down out of the Wislicbeorgs all the time. His cavalry would be slowed if the fields around the city were wet.
No, maybe it was smoke. He saw a gray cloud boiling up. And then the wind took it away. And then it rose again. “Riders out,” he said, turning to his squire. If there was enemy cavalry in the area, he needed to know it.
The dust cloud returned, and after a minute, he saw that it was coming from a single rider. A lone man, galloping full tilt. Lawrence tried to move himself and his horse slightly ahead of Flora, in order to protect her. But then she slid around him again, drawing her own sword.
When the rider was fifty yards away, Flora let out a little squeal of recognition. “Oh, it’s Andras!” she cried.
Sure enough, Lord Andras Byrne, Flora’s second son, came trotting up on his lathered horse. He was gasping, covered in dust, and wore bandages on his arm and forehead.
“My lord,” he said, drawing his sword and saluting Lawrence. “Mother,” he added. “The Gramirens have taken the city. They attacked in the night, apparently, and their flag is flying now from the castle.”
Lawrence felt a chill run up his back. On the horizon, far past young Andras, he could see the shifting cloud of gray. It wasn’t just dust. It was smoke. The city was burning.
Oh, Earstien. They were too late. Too late, and there would never be a way to redeem himself. Always and forever too late. Damn and blast that fucking bastard, Broderick Gramiren! Always one step ahead of them.
“Sir,” Andras went on, in a trembling voice, “Sir, our army is spread out. If the usurper chose to attack....”
The boy was right, blast it all.
Flora leaned out of her saddle and put a hand on Lawrence’s arm. “It really was a brilliant plan, dear. At least on paper.”
On paper, perhaps, but in real life, not so much.
Lawrence forced himself to look Andras square in the eye. “Send out riders. Cancel the river crossings. Recall our troops. We need to fall back.”