The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

The cottage was two levels high with a steep sloping roof, a single dormer window, and a few scraggly grapevines growing in the seams by the castle wall, only one of which was still alive and thick with leaves. Alensson paused at the door—even the brown wood was speckled with moss—overcome by emotion. His wife was the daughter of a duke. She should be living in luxury at the castle yonder, not in some moldering cottage that probably had a leaky roof.

When he heard the sound of humming on the other side of the door, he could hold back no longer. He rapped on the wood with his knuckles, shifting and fidgeting as he heard the humming cease and the sound of footsteps rushing to the door.

He anticipated it would be her maid, Alix. But it was his wife who answered the door. When he saw her, his heart surged up into his throat, and all the years of separation, all the years of longing, all the years of misery broke with the sunshine. Jianne was shorter than him, her wavy hair so dark it was nearly black. She was not wearing one of her court gowns, but she looked absolutely radiant in a peasant frock, her sunburned arms and cheeks a testament that she had labored out of doors.

“Alensson!” she breathed, a sleeper awakened from a nightmare. She flung herself into his arms, and he held her, burying his face in the mane of hair at her neck, hugging and squeezing her as the years of anxiety sloughed away like old bark.

“Where’s your maid?” he asked with a grin, hugging her back fiercely.

“It’s market day at Cienne. It’s a long walk, so Alix won’t be back until supper. But look at you! Come inside!”

Jianne showed Alensson the small kitchen, the warm oven, the well-swept stone floor, and the spacious loft where the bed had been assembled by a local carpenter friendly to House La Marche. He drank in the sights, drank in everything about her. She seemed overjoyed that her husband was home, even if that home was borrowed. The small cottage had originally belonged to the porter who controlled the rear door. The old porter lived with his daughter now, and the place had sat empty until Jianne’s arrival with her maid.

Later, as they sat across from each other at the small oak table, holding hands, Alensson stared into his wife’s cinnamon eyes and said, “I swear to you, my love, I swear that I will make this up to you. This will not be your home for much longer.”

She caressed his hand with her thumb. “I care not for castles, Alensson. I care not for rings or jewels. You are here, and I would be content to live out our lives in this cottage. I’ve fancied our children playing by the oven there. I’ve fancied you pruning orchards with your sword instead of spilling blood. Would that the Fountain had blessed us with a season of peace. This war, I fear, will never end.” But from the look in her eye, he knew that she understood his restless soul, his determination to reclaim his lost inheritance. To pay back every crown she had borrowed on his behalf. “You must go to Shynom, my love.” She squeezed his hand. “And I will go with you.”

He smiled. “We will be welcomed there with great honor and respect. I heard your father’s city is about to fall to the siege. Is that true?”

Jianne nodded, her countenance darkening. “I fear I shall never see him again. The people lose hope. The Fountain has forsaken us. Perhaps because we have forsaken it.”

“We will go on the morrow then,” Alensson said.

She shook her head no. “I beg one full day with you, my lord husband. Before you plunge back into the war, let me have a day of you to remember. A day just to ourselves.”

And the look she gave him made him eager to honor her request.



They had to walk most of the way to Shynom, and they did so hand in hand. Although his boots still hurt his feet, the journey was more enjoyable with his wife at his side. Alix was a dark-haired girl from the Felt family, a distant kinswoman who rarely spoke, but she seemed delighted that Alensson was back to relieve her mistress’s worries.

There was something exhilarating about bedding down in the deep field grasses by the light of the stars. This was the life of a peasant. He folded his hands behind his head as he stared up at the sky, savoring the feel of his wife’s hand resting on his chest. His head was full of thoughts, full of ideas. It was clear to him that relieving the siege of Lionn was the right strategy. Why was the prince still in Shynom and not traveling between cities and rousing a larger army to break the siege? When Alensson had last met him, he’d judged the prince to be an overly timid man. He was quick to laugh and drink and share a joke, but he rarely ventured outside the protection of the fortress of Shynom, one of the most ancient castles of western Occitania. His realm was being held hostage by a small toddler from Kingfountain. But the youth wasn’t the enemy. It was the child’s uncle. There was such a stark contrast between Chatriyon and Deford. They were opposites of each other in so many ways.

Chatriyon needed a bold commander. Someone who was decisive and would take action. Alensson had failed at Vernay, but not through cowardice or lack of ambition. But how was he to persuade the prince to give him command of an army again? All this dithering at court meant that Deford’s army continued to hold and maintain the lands and cities he’d won years before. The Duke of Westmarch would fall. Alensson vowed it to the stars.

When he and Jianne reached the town crowded outside Shynom, they stopped at an inn to change for court. Alensson had carried their fanciest clothes in his pack. Jianne’s gown was not of the latest court fashion, and she no longer had any jewelry. But she was determined to make an impression, and Alix helped braid her hair elegantly.

Alensson chafed in the common room, listening to the sound of rowdy drinkers. It was only midday, but many of the patrons were already drunk. He looked at them with disdain, his eyes darting from person to person. He was anxious to be on his way and hopefully get a command position, as well as a purse full of coins from his prince to reward him for his long imprisonment. He needed funds desperately. He needed a horse! He needed a decent sword.

What was taking Jianne so long?

There was a sudden commotion at the door of the inn. Alensson’s head turned toward the bright outside light, which flashed across the crimson tunic of one of the prince’s guardsman as he shoved a young man onto the floor inside the inn.

“If you come back to the gate again, I swear by the blood you’ll get a thrashing next time! Now go back to whatever town it was you came from!”

The guardsman sneered and then slammed the door of the inn, rattling the windows with the violence of the action. Some of the patrons started to guffaw as they stared disdainfully at the youth.

“He still won’t see you?” one of them jeered. “Should that surprise you?”

“Give it a rest. It ain’t no harm for trying.”

“Oy,” the landlord shouted, waving over the lad, who rose and rubbed his elbow. “I left a bit of bread at the table. But I told you they wouldn’t let you in the palace. Right? Didn’t I tell you? It’s unnatural. Get a bit to eat. Maybe you should be on your way.”

The youth gave him an angry look and then retreated to the table, sitting alone at the very end of it. Light from the window fell across its surface, reflecting white off the polished wood. A half-eaten loaf of trencher bread waited there on a plate.