Chapter Nineteen

“The King is dead!”

Havant swallowed, hard, as word echoed through the rear. The king was dead ... the king couldn’t be dead! His brother could not be dead. But panic was already spreading through the lines. It wouldn’t be long before some of the more treacherous noblemen decided to switch sides. They wouldn’t even be betraying the kingdom! Their oaths to King Rufus had died with him.

A messenger ran up to him. “Sir, the enemy is resuming the attack!”

“Obviously,” Havant snapped.

He gritted his teeth. Prince Reginald might not know what had happened, but the sudden chaos was unmistakable. It was a perfect opportunity to anyone who wanted to win the battle before someone else assumed control. And, with his forces on the far side of the river ready to cross, it was all too likely that he’d win before Havant could take command. Hell, far too many noblemen would refuse to recognise Havant until he was crowned in Allenstown ...

“Order the reserves to retreat and head north,” he ordered, grimly. “The remainder of the army is to hold as long as possible, then head north themselves. We will rendezvous at” – he took a moment to think – “Montrose.”

“An inspired choice,” Hark said, calmly.

Havant bit down a number of icy remarks. The battle was lost. Worse, the kingdom might well be lost too. The core army could be reformed, given time, but many of Rufus’s former vassals might switch sides now that he was dead. Even if they didn’t, they might not stay with Havant for long. They’d want to extract as many concessions as possible while their nominal king was in no position to argue.

And Prince Reginald now has an open road to Allenstown, he thought. Getting the army reformed in time to save Allenstown might be impossible. The city may not be able to hold out for long.

He summoned a handful of messengers and issued orders, then called for his horse. There was nothing to be gained from pretending that the battle wasn’t over. All he could do was preserve as much as possible, either to continue the war or sell out for the best terms he could get. And yet, after everything the family had done, he knew it was unlikely that Prince Reginald would let them keep their power. Their wings would very definitely be clipped. It was certainly unlikely that Reginald would agree to marry Emetine!

Shaking his head, he climbed onto the horse and joined the retreat. Behind him, he heard the sound of fighting growing louder. The enemy had definitely scented weakness, then. It wouldn’t be long before they mopped up the remaining troops, secured the town and opened the way to Allenstown. And then ... he sighed. It was in the hands of the gods now.

Hark walked beside him, keeping easy pace with the horse. Havant wondered, sourly, why the Red Monks hadn’t done more during the battle. They’d done enough to convince him that they could work miracles, yet ... he shook his head. He would have to have a proper chat with Hark, once they reached Montrose. Now, all they could do was retreat.

And hope they don’t harass us as we run, he thought. They could finish us off if they press the offensive.

***

Reginald had seen his first battlefield – the remnants of a brief clash with peasant rebels – when he’d been ten. He’d seen many more battlefields since, from a clash between two armies to a castle being stormed, but there was something about this battlefield that wore at him. Hundreds of bodies, most hacked to pieces, lay in piles on the ground, all concentrated over the trenches. The buildings beyond were blackened ruins, torn apart by his men when they stormed the town. It looked as though the tiny town – Alcidine was really nothing more than a village – would never rise again.

“That’s the usurper,” Caen said. He pointed to a single body, an arrow sticking out of its forehead. “The prisoners were quick to point him out to us.”

Reginald nodded, slowly. The usurper wore plain armour – a sign of an experienced soldier – but it was clear that he was nobility. Nobles were normally taller and fitter than the average commoner, if only because they ate better. His face was clean, unscarred by pox; his hands bore the telltale signs of a sword, rather than a plough. It was hard to be sure, but Reginald would have guessed the body was in its late thirties. Rufus Hereford had been thirty-seven.

And now he’s dead, he thought, wryly. It was a shame he didn’t know which archer to promote. There was no hope of collecting a ransom for a dead body, unless the usurper’s relatives wanted to pay to give his ashes a proper burial, but there hadn’t been much hope of a ransom either. Reginald could not have left the man alive. The kingdom is mine.

He looked up at Caen. “How many prisoners did we take?”

“Seventeen noblemen of various ranks, all Hereford clients,” Caen informed him. “And around five hundred soldiers. Some of the latter have asked to switch sides.”

“I’m sure they have,” Reginald grunted. He had no particular objection to absorbing defeated enemy troops into his army – most of them were little better than mercenaries, loyal only to their paymaster – but it was well to be careful. “The common soldiers can be held for a week, then released. They won’t be a problem without leaders. The sergeants and suchlike are to be held indefinitely, unless they’re willing to join us.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Caen said. “I should add that the noblemen are all extremely eager to kiss your arse.”

“They must be desperate,” Reginald said. He smiled, despite himself. If the usurper was dead, his clients would need a new patron. “Have them taken to the camp, held in separate tents, and interrogated. I want to know what, if anything, they can do for us.”

And they were taken in war, he thought, grimly. We can confiscate their lands and they know it. They’ll do everything in their power to seem useful.

Stuart hurried up, his bodyguards trailing behind. “Your Highness,” he said. “The enemy is still retreating northwards. Their rearguard” – his lips twisted, unpleasantly – “was alarmingly effective.”

Reginald nodded, feeling a flicker of sour admiration for whoever had taken command of the enemy force. Retreating from a battle was difficult enough at the best of times, all the more so when subordinate commanders were suddenly dangerously untrustworthy. Reginald had no doubt that some of the surviving noblemen would make contact with him soon enough, offering troops and money in exchange for a place in the new kingdom. Whoever was in command of what remained of the enemy force was in a very tight spot.

A shame we didn’t manage to cut off their retreat completely, he thought. By the time he’d realised what was happening, it was already too late. And we don’t have time to chase them now.

“Bring up the remainder of our supplies, then throw out a line of pickets,” he ordered, instead. “We’ll make camp here, then resume our advance in the morning. I want to get to Allenstown before the enemy has a chance to regroup.”

“Your Highness,” Stuart said.

He smiled, suddenly. “Do you think this was the decisive battle?”

Reginald shrugged. The Summer Isle’s laws insisted that the prospective king had to be acclaimed by the Gathering – an assembly of noblemen – before being crowned as king, but anyone with any real understanding of power knew that force was all that mattered. He’d smashed a chunk of the enemy army, then captured or scattered all that was left of it. It was unlikely anyone would dare to block him openly, no matter what happened.

And if we’re lucky, the chaos caused by the death of the false king will make it impossible for them to stop us just walking into Allenstown, he thought. And then we will be too strong to ignore.

“We will see,” he said. “But if they don’t manage to rebuild their forces, we win.”

***

“Hail, Your Majesty,” Hark said, as Havant entered the house. “Hail, King Havant!”

Havant scowled. It had taken all the charm he possessed to convince most of his commanders to hail him as king, even though he’d been his brother’s heir. And those commanders were supposed to be loyalists, their families clients of long standing. It would be harder to keep some of the more distant clients – and fair-weather friends – from slipping away once they heard the news. The army had taken one hell of a beating. Worse, it knew it had taken one hell of a beating.

He stomped over to the table and poured himself a glass of wine. The merchant who owned the house – and had surrendered it to the king at swordpoint – hadn’t been a particularly rich man, but he’d known his wines. Perhaps he’d spent more time than he should aping his betters, Havant considered. There had certainly been more than a little defiance in his tone before the guards had taken him and his family away. He clearly hadn’t realised that Havant was in no mood for anything but absolute submission.

“My brother is dead,” he said, taking a sip of the wine. “Why did that happen?”

“Your brother refused to open his heart to Our Lord,” Hark said. “And so he was outside Our Lord’s protection.”

Havant swung around, one hand dropping to the sword at his belt. “Are you saying you could have saved him?”

“Our Lord could have saved him,” Hark said. His hood hid his features in darkness. “But he chose not to open his heart.”

“And if he had, he would have lived?” Havant leaned forward, wondering – suddenly – just what he would see if he looked into the darkness. Hark was the only monk who didn’t keep his face completely covered at all times. “Or would you make excuses for your failure, like all the other priests ...”

Hark lifted one white finger. “Our Lord does not fail,” he said. “Or did he not kill your brother-in-law for you?”

“You needed a sample of his blood to kill him,” Havant snapped.

“There is always a price,” Hark said. “And sometimes that price is measured in the willingness to do whatever it takes to gain Our Lord’s favour.”

He leaned forward. The shadows seemed to darken.

“Open your heart to Our Lord,” he urged. “And Our Lord will help you.”

Havant couldn’t tear his eyes away from the darkness. And yet, he knew – on some instinctive level – that he didn’t want to know what hid under the darkness. He’d been told, from birth, that priests were better kept at arm’s length. They were useful to keep the peasants quiet and obedient – and fire the soldiers when they went to war – but they could not be allowed real power. Indeed, Rufus had insisted that Havant talk to the Red Monks because the head of the family could not be seen making an alliance with a single religion.

And yet, he knew the Red Monks had power. And yet ...

He wanted to close his eyes and think, but his eyelids seemed frozen open. He couldn’t even blink. There were things moving in the darkness, things so strange that they didn’t seem to be quite real. And yet, they were realer than real. Part of him wanted to turn and flee, to run north to the family lands and prepare for a fight; the rest of him knew there was power here, power just waiting for him ... if he paid the price.

They wanted to be recognised as a sanctioned religion, when they approached us, he thought, numbly. What will they want now?

But what choice did he have? Prince Reginald wouldn’t let him live. It was unlikely he’d let Emetine live. Rufus was already dead ... and none of them had had children. Havant’s closest relative, apart from his sister, was a third cousin. His father had made sure of that, eliminating everyone who might pose a threat to his children. The Hereford line would end with him.

He took a long breath. “What do you want me to do?”

Hark made no sound, but he must have sent some kind of message. The door opened, revealing two Red Monks – their faces hidden behind their cowls – and a struggling girl, held between them. Someone had torn off her clothes, then drawn eerie tattoos on her skin with blood. The girl looked at him, then started to scream. One of the monks slapped her on the head, then dropped her on the floor. The girl kept struggling until the monk leaned down, as if he was going to kiss her. And then the girl froze in terror.

Havant frowned. What had happened?

“Here,” Hark said. He passed Havant a knife. “You will have to kill her, then open your heart to Our Lord.”

Havant hesitated, despite himself. Sacrificing animals was frowned upon ... and sacrificing humans was completely beyond the pale. The intensity of the feeling surprised him. The girl was a commoner, his to use as he pleased ... and yet, he didn’t want to sacrifice her. It was all he could do to hold the knife.

“Kill her,” Hark said. “Or be nothing.”

The girl stared up at him, trembling in fear. He knew, all too well, what she’d assumed was going to happen to her when she was dragged into the house. Her father was probably already dead, her mother given to the troops ... she’d assumed, no doubt, that she was being spared for Havant’s personal pleasure. But being sacrificed was far worse. She couldn’t move, but her eyes were terrified ...

What is she to you? A voice asked. He wasn’t sure if it was something inside his mind or something else. Kill her and claim the kingdom.

Bitter resentment flourished inside him. His brother was dead. The family was doomed, unless he did something. And what did one commoner girl matter? She would be lucky to survive the next decade; even if he let her go, even if she survived the war. There were too many things that could take a young girl’s life. This way, at least, her death would serve a greater purpose.

He stabbed down, hard. The knife sliced into the girl and ...

... Power flared around him, a surge of power so far beyond him that it swept him up and out of his body. Thoughts – great and terrible thoughts, each one utterly beyond his comprehension – echoed in the power, flashes of images that made no sense to him at all. He thought he saw Rufus, just for a second, followed by someone who could easily have been a younger Emetine. Hark was there, greater and more terrible than Havant had ever known, and then he was gone too. His father’s voice rumbled in his head ...

“Open your heart,” a voice said. He looked for the speaker, but saw nothing. “Open your heart and let me in.”

Havant could feel the presence now, something so vast that it terrified and comforted him in equal measure. So much was clear now, so much that had once been hidden ... he was floating above the world, staring down at a multitude of ... options. And the presence wanted in. It was waiting, outside his mind, for Havant to open the door.

He reached for the presence and the presence came. Power flowed into him, following a presence so vast that ... that he could no longer control himself. He was dimly aware, as his awareness started to fade, that something was speaking through him, that something was moving his body, but it seemed unimportant. All that mattered was surrendering to the darkness ...

His eyes snapped open. He was lying in a bed, a strange bed. He reached for his sword, instinctively, but he couldn’t find it. Had he been drunk? He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He didn’t feel as though he’d been drunk. And yet ... he looked out the window and blinked in surprise. It had been late evening when he’d ...

The memories snapped back. There had been a girl, hadn’t there? He’d killed a girl. It was hardly the first time he’d killed, but ... some of the memories had faded, as if they’d been blotted out or overwritten by something else. Outside, he could hear the sound of chanting. Someone was saying a prayer. Whatever language it was, and he knew priests preferred to use tongues of their own, he didn’t recognise it. More and more voices were joining in, echoing together in ways that ... that should have chilled him. But the sound felt almost welcoming.

He glanced up, sharply, as the door opened. A young manservant stepped into the room, looking nervous. Havant recognised him as one of Rufus’s pages ... one of his pages now, he supposed. Rufus was dead ... oddly, the thought hurt less than he’d expected. Rufus had gone to a better place. And yet, the page was staring at Havant as if he’d never seen him before.

“Your Majesty,” the page said, holding out a mug. His eyes were twitching oddly, as if he couldn’t quite look at Havant. “The messengers from Allenstown have returned.”

Havant blinked. “The messengers from Allenstown?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the page said, carefully. He sounded terrified. Havant didn’t really blame him. “You sent them out last night.”

“Ah,” Havant said, as he took the mug. He didn’t remember sending any messengers, although he knew it was something he’d needed to do. Apparently, he had. “What ... what else did I do last night?”

Hark walked into the room. “Our Lord spoke through you,” he said, as the page leaned away from him. “Our ultimate victory is assured.”