A Royal Marriage (19 page)

“I regret to ask you the favor of taking charge of Castlehead in my absence, especially in these trying times.”

Gisela only laughed at his concern. “You know I’m quite capable of leaving the castle under military command if I feel I must ride after you.” She looked at him longingly and her expression sobered. “You know I would do anything for you. I’m honored that you leave your fortress to me.”

“You have proven yourself a most capable leader.” He gazed at her, memorizing her every feature to tide him over until he would see her again. “I esteem your judgment above all others.”

John left her reluctantly. He rode with a band of men in hopes of hearing better news from his brother. With Urias dead, they could hope to avoid further betrayals. With any luck, the Illyrians would be disinclined to make a move without their inside man.

Or they might have grown more desperate, and be willing to try anything. John supposed he’d know the answer all too soon.

* * *

Gisela divided her time between prayers for John’s safety, and overseeing the falcon tower. There Fledge’s new mate peered at her curiously, as though wondering what she’d done with the other falcon. Fledge was nowhere to be seen.

Elisabette had taken to her room, and Hilda had taken over her post keeping track of her, which was easy enough since the girl rarely emerged, even to eat. The troops kept up steady drills in the courtyard and outlying fields. They kept busy making arrows and sharpening their swords, and patching any holes in their armor.

Bartholomew arrived Sunday morning with a surprise in a wooden cage. “Do you recognize this creature?” He held up the falcon for her to see.

Fledge glared at the deacon through the bars.

“Yes, I do! Where ever did you find her?”

“She surprised King John yesterday. Flew right up to him as he stood on a high open tower. The king asked me to deliver her back to you.”

Gisela thanked the deacon for returning the bird, and carried Fledge back to her mate, who almost looked relieved, if a bird could wear such an expression.

Worship had a somber tone, and afterward Gisela quizzed Bartholomew for news of John and Luke, since messages between them had been few and brief.

“His Majesty longs to return to Castlehead, but Prince Luke fears for the safety of Sardis,” Bartholomew informed her with an apologetic shake of his head. “His scouts report that the Illyrians are drawing near the city pulling three catapults, each as tall as six men.”

Gisela pinched her eyes shut as Bartholomew delivered the news. Her father had catapults and trebuchets among his war machines. She’d watched them in action in practice drills, the missiles they flung pounding the earth with a force like thunder. The memory of it rumbled through her bones ominously. If three of the deadly machines bombarded Sardis, the city’s strong stone walls would fall, crushing those they’d been built to protect.

“King John and Prince Luke hope to mount an offensive against the Illyrians before they reach the city, but from the reports the scouts have brought, the Lydian forces are vastly outnumbered. To ride out might be suicide.”

“To stay in the city might be the same.” Gisela wished there had been time to build an escape tunnel, so that the people of Sardis could travel safely to Castlehead. But then, the Illyrians would simply drag their war machines on down the peninsula.

Gisela gripped the old deacon’s weathered hands. “Catapults are mighty, but they’re not unstoppable. They’re built of wood, with ropes to fling the missiles. The best defense is to shoot at them with flaming arrows, or better yet pelt them with burning coals from the small catapults mounted on the Sardis walls. If you can catch them on fire they’ll have to stop shooting long enough to get the fire out.”

“Would they really catch on fire and burn, do you suppose?” Bartholomew questioned.

“I’ve never seen it done, but my father always said it might be possible. The only other hope would be to get a runner behind the enemy to set them ablaze by hand. The fire would be more likely to catch, but there’s little chance that runner would return alive.”

“Dear God, help us.” The old deacon shook his head.

“You’re welcome to stay in Castlehead.” Gisela was reluctant to let Bartholomew leave Castlehead after the Sunday services.

A surprisingly fierce look sprang to Bartholomew’s eyes when she suggested that he stay. “If I let the fear of the Illyrians stop me from doing the Lord’s work, they might as well kill me. I intend to ride my circuit until I die.”

An ominous feeling rose inside her as Gisela watched him go. Would the old deacon die doing the Lord’s work? She prayed it wouldn’t come to that, and yet his words echoed through her mind, boding ill warnings. The air itself seemed ripe with expectation, and a crisp fall wind blew in from the sea, pushing distant thunderclouds toward them.

Gisela didn’t like the look of the clouds as she studied them from Fledge’s tower, where she’d climbed to get a better look. They teemed with angry power, surging and billowing, changing constantly, now hiding, now revealing ships in their midst.

She squinted at what appeared to be sails riding ahead of the clouds that loomed just west of them. Had the Illyrians decided to strike by sea? They weren’t known for their seafaring ways, having very little decent coastline to sail from. It was for that very reason she suspected King Garren was so intent on obtaining the lands of Lydia—he wanted ports to sail from, but had little idea just how poor a port might be off the rocky shore.

Once Gisela was certain the shapes she saw were not just shifting clouds, but ships—three of them, in fact—she lifted her skirts and hurried to the gates.

The watchmen there had been studying the approaching sails, as well. The brisk winds pushed the ships rapidly closer, so that in the time it took for Gisela to reach the other tower, already she could make out some detail on the sails.

“They are my father’s ships.” She nearly cried with relief when she recognized them. It had been nearly five weeks since Boden had left with the message for her father. If he’d made good time, her father could have sent ships in response to his message, which would even now be pushing toward them ahead of the strong winds.

Gisela ran for the wharf, reaching the end of it just as the first smattering of rain hit the wooden planks. The first ship had let down a boat, and the rowers pulled mightily to stay ahead of the sheet of wind-driven rain that pursued them.

“Father!” Gisela called, waving happily when she recognized for certain the great man who stood at the prow.

He grinned back at her, and leaped with a great stride for the dock as the boat slid alongside it. “Gisela!” He scooped her up into a great hug. “We’ve got to get in out of the rain.”

“Hurry to the castle!” She ran alongside him, jealous of his longer legs that propelled him forward ahead of her, in spite of his age and stout size. As they neared the gate she darted ahead and waved the men in behind them before darting under the roofline that overhung the walls rimming the courtyard, leading them to the great hall where a fire still burned from the noon meal.

She sent the servants to fetch food and drink, then turned to her father, who clasped her by the shoulders.

“Gisela.” He beamed. “You look as well as I have ever seen you. And where is this King John to whom, my men tell me, I owe a debt for saving your life?”

“Oh, Father, I hardly know where to begin.” She launched quickly into the story of all that had happened from the moment she’d arrived in Lydia up until that very day. As she spoke, the servants carried in a lunch.

The emperor ate, but his eyes hardly left his daughter’s face. Partway through her tale, Gisela sent men to fetch the maps of Lydia she’d been studying with King John, so that her father could better understand the details of what she explained.

“John says the Illyrians have long caused trouble, but I know my arrival was the spark that lit the fire of war. This good Christian kingdom may well pay the ultimate price for their kindness to me.”

Charlemagne scowled. “I should have killed Rab the Raider instead of unleashing him on unsuspecting lands.”

“You were only trying to be merciful,” Gisela consoled him.

“He didn’t appreciate my mercy, or he wouldn’t be so intent on ending innocent lives.” Charlemagne glowered. “And what of this King John that you’ve spoken of so well and so highly with nearly every sentence from your lips?”

Gisela felt herself blushing furiously. She’d thought she’d gotten through the story without giving away any of her feelings for the young king, but obviously her father knew her well enough to listen between the lines. “He saved my life. He’s a good king, and I fear...” She bit her hand, chastising herself for showing weakness in front of her father.

Thankfully, Martin rushed into the great hall at that moment. “Old Bartholomew approaches through the rain, Your Highness.”

“Bring him in, by all means. The poor dear must have turned around to escape the storm.” But even as she spoke, Gisela couldn’t help but wonder. The afternoon had turned to evening while she’d been explaining the events of the past several weeks to her father. Even traveling slowly, Bartholomew should have arrived at Sardis long before.

She’d no more than expressed her concern to her father when the old deacon was shuffled in, dripping and coughing. She had him brought near the fire and sent a servant to fetch him a mug of hot spiced wine.

“Please.” He coughed and sputtered, raising his hands to ward off their attempts to help him. “Listen. As I approached the city of Sardis, I saw the catapults and the Illyrian army.”

“They approach the city?”

“No.” A fit of coughing took him, and Gisela had to wait long painful seconds before he explained. “They’re fighting. They’ve got Sardis surrounded. The city is under siege.”

Chapter Sixteen

A
s night fell, John remained in a tower with his brother. A storm had moved in, darkening the day, dousing all hope that their flaming arrows might catch the catapults on fire, and finally, blocking out all light from the moon and stars with thick clouds.

Even the wind blew so fiercely that John could no longer hear the sounds of battle.

“I believe they’ve given up the fight for the night,” Luke observed as he peered through the narrow arrowslit window.

“I pray they have.” John felt the ache of battle in his every limb. His throat was sore from shouting, his arms weak from pulling back his bow and his legs trembled from the many times he’d rushed from one tower to another to monitor the press of battle. “If they make many more direct hits against our walls, they’ll bring them down completely.”

“The men are trying to patch the breach on the west end, but the rain is complicating their efforts.”

“Fortunately the cliffs beneath the city are high at that point. If the Illyrians want to make use of the hole they’ve made, they’ll have to do a great deal of climbing first.”

“They may well do it.”

John agreed. “They’ve come at us with their full army. This is no mere raid they can blame on rebels.”

“They have no intention of answering to anyone afterward. I doubt they intend to leave any of our men alive.”

John groaned at the thought. If he truly loved her, Warrick might spare Elisabette to be his bride. But what would happen to Gisela? John still hadn’t figured out why the Illyrians had requested a match in the first place, so he couldn’t begin to guess what they’d do with her now. “I suppose even Warrick himself is down there somewhere.”

“All the better to rush in and take the crown,” Luke pronounced with disdain.

“We can’t let it come to that.” John rose determinedly and peered through the arrowslit into the thick darkness. Nothing but wind and pounding rain greeted him, but he knew that somewhere, far too close and yet not near enough to see, lay a vast army and munitions of death.

“How are we ever going to stop them? I’ve worn myself out today making no inroads against them, and I’m still not recovered from their last attack against me.” Luke held one hand to his side, which had healed thanks to the stitches of the mysterious pale-haired woman, though Luke reported that he still felt aching pain in the spot.

“We could mount an offensive,” John suggested.

“’Twould be suicide.”

“If we had a second team to come at them from behind—”

“We don’t.”

“If we’d built the tunnels Gisela suggested—”

“We haven’t.” Luke’s sigh was almost a laugh. “And there isn’t time.”

“How do you know?”

“How long do you think we have?” Luke answered his own question. “Not nearly long enough.”

John slumped against the wall and slid down until he sat beside his brother on the floor. He thought for several long minutes before asking, “What do you suppose they’ll do with us?”

“With you, the king, and I, the prince?” Luke made a musing face. “Assuming we survive the battle, they’ll find the most miserable way to kill us and then leave our bodies somewhere awful as a warning to their enemies.”

John pondered a moment longer. “I’d rather ride out and meet the battle, even if it means certain death.”

Luke fiddled with an arrow, pointing all the barbs of the feather until they spread out in perfect symmetry. Finally he asked, “At dawn?”

“No, the rising sun would blind our eyes.”

“At sunset, then?”

“If we live that long.”

Luke stood and offered John his hand. “I’ll ride out beside you,” he promised, pulling his brother to standing, “if we live that long.”

* * *

Torches lit the great hall as Gisela spread out the maps. Her father and his ranking men stood along one side of the long table. John’s remaining military men faced them from the other side.

“How many fighting men came with you?” she asked her father.

“Thirty-five on my ship, thirty-seven on each of the two others.”

“That’s over a hundred men.” She turned to Renwick, the highest-ranking of the men John had left behind. “And we have five dozen more?”

“Three score, Your Highness,” Renwick calculated, “sixty men and twenty horses.”

Gisela scowled at the maps. “It’s the lack of cavalry that would hurt us most. A man can ride to Sardis in an hour at a full gallop. Walking might take him all day.”

Emperor Charlemagne ran his fingers along the outline of the coast. “I brought three ships. What’s to stop us from coming by sea?”

“You noted the rocks when you came in?”

“Are they as thick all along the coast?”

“Thicker. Only fishing boats can make it through.”

The emperor made a thoughtful sound in his throat. He looked at Renwick. “How many fishing boats are there in the area?”

“Oh, dozens, sire. Many along the peninsula make their living on the sea. But a man would have to knock on every door for miles to round them up.”

Charlemagne chuckled. “If you round them up, I’ll fill them.” He turned to Gisela to explain, “The Illyrians might take notice of a ship. Fishing boats may approach with greater stealth.”

While Renwick rushed off to dispatch men to commandeer all the fishing boats they could, Charlemagne crossed his arms over his chest and addressed Gisela. “Now, how are we going to get a message to King John to let him know when we’ll be arriving? I’d like him to mount an offensive from the city at my signal.”

Gisela wished they had a tunnel to send a messenger through. Nor did she expect a messenger could get past the Illyrian siege to deliver a note. “We’ll just have to hope they see what we’re up to and respond.”

“It would be more effective if we could coordinate an attack.”

“I’m sorry, Father. The only way we could get a message to them at this point would be to fly it to them through the air.” She intended the words to express the futility of his request, but the moment she spoke them, a thought occurred to her. She snapped her fingers. “We could fly it through the air!”

Her father eyed her skeptically, but when she explained that Fledge had found King John in Sardis once before, Charlemagne chuckled happily. “The Illyrians won’t try to stop a bird. Do you really think this creature can find your king?”

“She’s faithful to him. I’ve had to keep her caged to prevent her from flying back home. The greater trick will be getting her to carry a message without trying to tear it off.”

As they formulated their plans, Gisela penned the message in tiny script on a scrap of parchment, thankful that nearly all Illyrians were illiterate. Just as rare as those who could read or write were Illyrians who could speak a word of Latin. Even if the note was intercepted, no one would be able to translate it.

Sometime after midnight the rain tapered off. Gisela sent a servant to fetch the falcon. She tied the message securely to her leg, while a guard held the animal to keep Fledge from biting. Then she told the bird to find King John, and had her set free through the window.

“Do you suppose that will work?” Charlemagne asked, as the falcon disappeared into the dark night.

“If it doesn’t we’re no worse off than we would be otherwise. And if it does—” she grinned up at her father and felt her hope returning “—it may tip the battle back in Lydia’s favor.”

* * *

John awoke to the sound of fighting. His entire body ached, but he leaped to his feet and rushed to throw open the shutters to the room where he’d spent the night. The murky glow of dawn tinted the eastern sky. Below him, past the walls of the city on the plain near the rocky coast, John could just make out the outline of the three hulking catapults waiting like giant beasts to unleash their destruction.

Now that the rain had ended, John and his men might finally have a shot at setting one of the massive death machines ablaze. If they were quick, they might even get the job done before the catapults inflicted much more damage.

John pulled his head in from the window just as something hurtled toward him through the air. He caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye and was about to pull the shutters closed when he recognized the falcon.

“Fledge! Have you been stalking me?” he accused. “I am not your usual prey.”

John slipped on a leather glove before extending his arm toward the bird. The raptor alighted on his arm but pranced somewhat uneasily.

“Why are you fidgeting? Oh, you’ve got something on your leg.” John felt a curious smile spread across his lips. The bit of parchment had to have been intentionally tied there, and he only knew one woman cunning enough to do such a thing.

His heart warmed at the thought of his beloved. If he lived to see her again, he would never let her go.

* * *

At her father’s insistence, Gisela relented to staying at the rear of the cavalry unit as they made their way down the peninsula toward Sardis. The boats had rowed out before dawn, each weighed down with as many men as the varied craft could carry. She’d told her father about the catapults, so many of the men carried kettles filled with burning coals.

They walked to save the horses’ strength for battle, besides which many of the men had no mount, so if they intended to arrive together they all had to travel on foot. With any luck, they’d be within sight of Sardis by the time her father and his men mounted their surprise attack from the rear.

And if John received his message in time, he’d be watching for Charlemagne’s signal, a wide swath of crimson fabric to be unfurled the moment Charlemagne wanted John’s men to charge. If John could keep the Illyrians’ attention from the “fishermen” scrambling up the rocky shore, the buckets of coal might stand a chance of reaching the catapults.

She could only pray John and his men were still well enough to mount the attack.

* * *

John braced himself against the battlements as the catapults thundered their missiles against the city walls. The men were ready. Every horse in the city was mounted to ride out. His best archers manned the walls to keep the encroaching Illyrians at bay, while a second wave of footmen prepared to follow the cavalry out the front gate and across the bridge the moment John gave the signal to have it lowered.

The boats had been weaving through the rocky waters for almost an hour. John had watched the men, disguised by cloaks to look more like fishermen than soldiers, as they clambered up the cliffs toward the Illyrians, who were too consumed with bombarding the city to recognize the threat that crept stealthily up behind them.

Had John not known of the plan, he might have feared the Illyrians themselves were up to mischief, if he’d paid the fishing boats any heed at all. As it was, he felt a wild hope clamoring inside him. Was the Emperor Charlemagne himself really among the figures creeping to the aid of his beleaguered city?

As the men rose to their feet, one figure stood taller than the rest. His broad shoulders made him easy to pick out. While the others crept closer to the catapults at the rear of the Illyrian ranks, carrying buckets John doubted held fish, this lone man stood still and reached inside his cloak.

The wind caught the red cloth, billowing it wide. It rippled in the wind three times before the figure let it go. It blew back toward the sea and the man charged forward.

John looked to the guard at the next tower and lowered his arm, signaling him to raise the portcullis and lower the bridge.

While the heavy counterweights ratcheted loudly in obedience to his order, John leaped down the steps and found his stallion, Moses, waiting beside his brother’s horse. He met his brother’s eyes for one silent moment, knowing they would fight to the death if necessary to protect their loved ones and their kingdom.

Then the front horses broke free, pounding across the heavy planks, as the Illyrians surged to meet them.

The roar of battle rose up everywhere around him. John didn’t have to nudge Moses to move. The stallion lunged forward the moment the animal in front of him led the way. John held his sword ready and prayed that God would be with them.

* * *

As Gisela had promised her father, she let the men take the lead as they reached Sardis. It wasn’t as though she could have gotten to battle, anyway, with the wall of clashing swords in front of her and the rocky sea on either side.

Her horse pranced anxiously, dancing first forward and then back. Worried that the animal would waste its strength in nervous dancing, Gisela took cover in the nearest olive grove, where she could watch what was happening and determine where her sword might be most useful.

Smoke rose from the rear of the Illyrian ranks, belching black and ugly through the morning sky. Had her father’s men caught a catapult on fire? It was the only thing she knew of that could create so much smoke, but she could see little past the ridges of rocks and the sea of fighting soldiers.

She watched the men make their way down the drawbridge toward the Illyrian front. For several tense moments she feared the red-plumed soldiers would prevent John’s men from advancing, but a grave push from the city broke through in a wave of hooves and swords, and the men poured out of Sardis.

Gisela searched for John among them, but the fighting was too thick. Instead she turned her attention toward her advancing men. They’d made some headway toward Sardis, even as the Illyrians who besieged the city turned to fight them off.

Hoping to ride forward with them, she nudged her horse forward, almost reaching the men who marched at the rear when the clatter of hooves behind her caught her attention.

A score of Illyrian riders had forded the shallows and now crept up the rocky bank toward the peninsula. For a moment, Gisela feared they were about to pounce on the Lydian soldiers from behind.

Then, with an even more sickening fear, she saw they weren’t interested in her soldiers at all.

They pointed their horses down the road to Castlehead at a full gallop.

The Illyrians had obviously guessed that Lydia had spent its forces riding to the aid of Sardis. Castlehead now lay virtually unguarded, save by Elisabette, Hilda and the fresh-faced youths Gisela had deemed too inexperienced to march out with her.