The Black Prince: Part II (10 page)

He wondered what his future bride was doing at that moment. If her eyes had been one of the pairs watching him earlier. He wondered if she was with her women now, cowering in fear of plague?

He wondered what she looked like. If she was tall or short, fat or thin. He preferred fair women, as a rule. Although he’d had women of all shades, hair and skin. All shades, all dimensions. What made a woman alluring wasn’t the same thing that, necessarily, made her attractive. Many women had a sort of theoretical beauty; he could appreciate, looking at them, that he was supposed to want them. But they stirred nothing within except, perhaps, after hearing them speak, revulsion.

He hated women who were thoughtless, or grasping. Narrow-minded or stupid. No curve of the hip or swell of the breast could compensate for that. At the same time, though, many women who lacked the markers of conventional beauty—who were too short, or too fat, or were marred by some other supposedly gross defect—practically had to beat their admirers off with a stick.

He couldn’t pin down precisely what made a woman alluring, because it could be anything. Her character. Her personality. Her having done something truly brave. Wit was alluring, especially in that restrained and sardonic fashion usually associated with men.

He liked a woman’s ilia. Her collar bone. Those tasty, vulnerable areas seemed to always be equally pleasing, regardless of her overall dimensions. And then there were her feet. Also so vulnerable. So delicate. So interesting to tickle, or to cut with a reed.

He sighed.

And then, as Arvid and the rest of the men toiled at their shared delusion, he slept.

H
e was up and eating dinner when it happened.

Arvid was in the tent with him, and the Southron sergeant. And Rudolph. Rudolph was like a difficult child he’d been forced to care for, because the mother had run off. Basic human compassion dictated that he not leave something so helpless out in the woods. Hart didn’t precisely suffer from compassion, basic or otherwise, but he did tell the truth and he did not relish telling Isla—or Lissa, who cared very much for children and animals alike—that he’d let Rudolph expire because the jumped up, feminized sot was simply too annoying.

Besides, his program seemed to be working. Rudolph wasn’t nearly as bad as he had been. He’d even figured out how to use the latrine pit. And in front of others. The various bugs embroidered on his various doublets had mostly fallen off, or grown so caked in filth as to be rendered invisible. And he’d finally let one of the men cut his hair. Making him look less like the king’s new jester and more like someone who might conceivably wield a sword.

At some point.

Hart didn’t really want him there but nor did he precisely not want him. It was a strange thing: he’d almost begun to feel a sort of sense of…obligation toward his unexpected orphan. And Rudolph was his, of this there was no doubt. The other men were constantly asking Hart what to do with him, when they found him vomiting because he’d seen something awful or after he started trying to explain the finer points of church doctrine.

Bread. Hart tapped the rock hard square on his desk and a maggot plopped out. Whitish-gray, like a piece of intestine.

“Good nourishment,” Arvid said.

“Feel free.”

The men thought their leaders ate better, but they didn’t. Maybe they did in Maeve’s army; he didn’t know. Maeve favored the old fashioned approach to victualing, where each man was responsible for providing his own. As he couldn’t very well carry such a bounty with him, even had he access to it, practically this meant that the average soldier purchased dinner from his own lord. Often with the lord turning a tremendous profit. Or food was given out in lieu of wages, revolting scraps that Hart wouldn’t have fed his pig back in Enzie.

The major practical problem this approach created, other than discontentment and, ultimately, desertion was tactical: camp followers. The joke was always that a rebel army could be smelled, if not spotted, a hundred leagues out. Hart wanted a disciplined fighting force, not a circus. It was quicker, and in the end cheaper, to simply feed the men.

If this mess could be called food. They’d hardly succeed, either, if they were passing out from starvation. Bread was supplemented by a pottage made from beans, peas, and oatmeal. Or, in truth, whatever was lying around. That all was stewed down into a mostly edible paste in whatever vessels could be gathered while grain was milled with handmills that broke, or never worked properly to begin with. The result being that, along with unwanted passengers, there was also a great deal of grit to be found in the bread. Grit that broke teeth and caused other problems.

Once in awhile there was salted fish, if it could be purchased. They diluted their water with beer when they could, too, for fear of the bloody flux. The same church fathers who condemned the notion that alcohol could purify, Hart noticed, also mixed it into their water at dinner.

Barghast was the first place Hart had been, where the water was reliably safe. Coming, as it did, from wells and from the lake. In Enzie, the water hadn’t been safe to drink. And on the march, while it might have been to begin with, it certainly wasn’t after a thousand men and half that number of horses had pissed and shit in it.

Another thing the bards never mentioned, amid all their talk of honor and pennants snapping smartly in the breeze, was the fact that the average thousand pound horse produced three and a half stone of shit per day. Meaning that every single day his army produced a literal mountain of shit. By this time tomorrow, the five hundred horses at his disposal would have produced thirteen tons of shit. Which he fully intended to start slinging over the walls, as well.

And he didn’t even want to consider what they ate.

Rudolph pinched the maggot between thumb and forefinger and popped it into his mouth. A second later he swallowed. “Still a finer table than Rowena’s.”

Hart’s answering grunt might have been part laugh.

He looked up when the flap opened and one of the Southrons entered. “Lord Hart.”

He stood at attention, waiting. These Southrons were painfully formal, so conscious as they were of their—perceived—difference in status. No wonder Hart had never fit in. He was no different than this man; if anything, his status was the less. This man’s birth had likely been acknowledged by the church.

He’d stand there like a rock all night if Hart let him. “Yes?”

“There’s someone here, to see you.”

Hart nodded his acquiescence and the flap opened again.

A stout figure ducked, and then entered. He stood up, and brushed himself off. As though the mere act of entering Hart’s presence had somehow gotten him dirty. The castellan’s crony. The one who’d advised against him speaking with Hart and who, apparently, in that regard, spoke in place of the earl.

He sniffed. And at first he said nothing. Just stood there. He looked uncomfortable, but not frightened. More like he had an exceedingly unpleasant task to do, and was girding himself up.

Hart waited.

He sniffed again. He still hadn’t introduced himself. Rather, he stared down his nose at Hart as though Hart were some sort of wretched gong pit farmer and had the odor to match his position. Although, Hart corrected himself, the average gong pit farmer likely found more welcome.

“I am Hugh Bailleul.”

“Congratulations.”

“I am the chamberlain of this house.”

What a large staff this house had. The chamberlain was the castellan’s assistant, responsible for overseeing both those activities conducted within the great hall and the castellan’s personal finances. In short, he held a purse and occasionally planned feasts. A completely unnecessary position; any castellan who couldn’t keep track of his own funds should hardly be considered qualified to manage those of an entire castle. But the more retainers the better, at least according to Southron sensibilities. How would anyone know they were rich, this earl and his family, if they didn’t have a chamberlain? And an almoner and a falconer and a glazier and ten ewerers besides?

No wonder the kingdom was going to shit.

“You’re going to kill us all.” He sounded…not worried. Just disgusted.

“Yes.”

“There are children within the walls. And unlike you, plague makes no promises.”

So he was pompous, but brave.

“I don’t trust you. I doubt that you trust me. But with you there is at least hope.”

“Have you a child?”

“No. I am unmarried.”

Hart leaned back in his chair. “So tell me, Hugh Bailleul the chamberlain, what is it that you propose to do.”

And what was in this for him, Hart wondered. He had no kin to protect. Surely he wasn’t a king’s man at heart, what with his loathing for commoners. Of which he was one. Although yeoman and serfs tended to see themselves as worlds apart, without realizing that to their overlords they were all the same. One would think that having little would bring people together, encourage them to share; instead, fear of having even less drove them apart.

“I propose to let you in.”

“In exchange for?”

“In exchange for you not pitching that body over the wall.”

Hart had expected a request for a fat purse, or a title. Both of which might still come. As a child, when his father had still paid for tutors, he’d read about a famous commander who’d been presented with just such a situation. The man had come to him, offering information. For the good of his people, he’d claimed. His information had been sound, his motives apparently pure. Or, as pure as they could be, considering. The commander had executed him, regardless. Because, as he’d explained before he swung the sword,
if you’d betray your own brothers, then you’d betray me
.

It was true, what he’d told Rudolph: wars were not fought for honor.

“Then do so,” Hart said, rising. “Now.”

T
he camp fires still burned, abandoned.

They moved in silence, in a column: Hart and a hand-picked group of men.

Small. Easily maneuverable. Harder to detect. The others waited at the ready, for Hart’s signal. Not cooking—or dying—around their fires as the enemy believed but with swords drawn. They were led by Arvid. At Hart’s insistence. Arvid had been furious at being, as he put it, left with the girls and the milksops but someone had to be the leader if Hart fell. He trusted Arvid.

And there was no one else.

The chamberlain led them all, Hart’s sword at his back. The very moment even the smallest sound left his mouth, Hart would run him through. Even though the unfortunate man might just be groaning, or sighing. Or crying out in dismay as he tripped over something. It didn’t matter. Hart couldn’t take the risk that he’d call out. Or that, regardless of his true intent, the noise would attract attention. He’d threatened his own men with the loss of an ear, a punishment that he had every intention of delivering. All that was needed was for one single guard to look down.

One dozen of them. Vulnerable, with no place to find cover. Subterfuge was impossible; they were only hiding by not being seen.

There was a plop in the water and Rudolph tugged on Hart’s sleeve. He pointed. Was it something important? Hart shook his head. Just a fish jumping from the water to catch a bug. Ripples spread where it had been, the faintest silver in the waning moon.

But, moon or no moon, a sharp-eyed archer could dispatch them all before they’d had a chance to leave the bridge.

The average archer tried for six shots per minute, to conserve both arrows and his own strength, but under duress he could shoot twice that. More than enough arrows for the little group. Hart couldn’t help but think of that old game, fish in a barrel. Making matters worse was the fact that House Salm had only one entrance. There wasn’t even a water gate, if they’d had access to some sort of skiff.

There was a certain appeal, in theory, to making all comers knock on the front door. The problem was that one way in also meant one way out. And no way, for the lord of a castle under siege, to escape. If they’d been on land, even on a small island of land like contained Caer Addanc, there would have been a postern gate. Postern gates were designed to be, not announcements like what they were creeping toward but inconspicuous. A means of coming and going undetected.