It was well done of him. With a purpose to our wanderings, we begin trickling through the camp, avoiding the tents, the hellequin talking amongst themselves, some even in German, which impresses me somewhat.
I scan the sea of tents, looking for the king’s pavilion. It was so easy to see from the walls of the city, but here on the ground, it is harder to discern. “This way,” Balthazaar mutters, drawing his horse nearer mine and shifting our direction. I keep my head down, as if I am sullen and ill-tempered.
We begin moving toward the center of camp, veering east slightly, so that when the diversions come, we will seem to be running toward them, like the rest of the encampment. Initially, no one pays us any heed. It is not until we have passed a dozen rows of tents that anyone hails us. “Hold there! What are you doing?” one of the patrolling soldiers asks.
It is Sauvage who answers. “The quartermaster told us that the food wagons and women were this way.”
The soldier looks less than pleased but is no doubt put off by Sauvage’s terrifying visage and intimidating manner and simply grumbles under his breath.
We have made our way past another dozen rows when the king’s pavilion comes into sight. The tent is even larger up close, nearly as large as one of the chambers in the palace. It is of purple- and gold-striped silk and has the king’s banner flying atop, flapping cheerfully in the warm breeze. My entire body quivers with anticipation, but I try to keep my head down to avoid calling attention to myself. It is hard—so hard. I want to look and see, plot out my course and consider the hundred possible ways this could go, but I dare not risk drawing anyone’s eyes for too long.
When we are but three rows away from the king’s pavilion, I hear it: the shouts and scramble of soldiers accompanied by the distant thunder of riding horses. The soldiers near the king’s tent crane their necks in curiosity as the sally port opens and the second group of hellequin ride out. Our diversion has arrived.
I look at Balthazaar, for now timing is everything. We have only a few moments to get to the tent, shoot the king, then retreat. If I take too long at any of those steps, the hellequin’s chance of returning to the city with me will evaporate.
He nods, and I twitch my reins the way Aeva showed me. My horse whinnies and rears, throwing me to the ground. Since I am expecting it, I am able to roll off her somewhat gracefully and avoid too painful a landing. But now I am on the ground, on foot, and no one is paying any attention to me, except for two squires, who snicker. Then their knight barks at them and they hurry to help him into the armor so he may ride after the Breton raiders.
I make as if to kick at my horse in disgust, then grab her reins and begin limping behind the others. As we pass behind a large tent, I lift the bow from my saddle hook, then toss my reins to Balthazaar. He catches them neatly, then acts as if he is still making for the food wagons.
A quick glance shows me that no one is watching. Most of the surrounding French soldiers are scrambling toward the attacking Bretons, eager to engage after so many days of inactivity.
I sprint as if heading in the same direction, then veer around the back of the king’s pavilion. Balthazaar raises his crossbow to offer cover should anyone spot me before I reach the tent.
For a moment, the sheer audacity of my plan steals my breath away. Because of me, Mortain has consigned himself to a mortal fate. If I fail, I will have robbed myself of not only a lover, but the god who has sustained me my entire life, and the father of all the girls at the convent. They will never know him, not as a man, not even as a god. This is what following my own desires has brought me to.
If the Dragonette or the abbess were here, how they would mock my pride, my willfulness, the sheer selfishness of my dreams.
But they are not here, only I am. For some reason, the gods have put this task in my hands. I grasp that thought and hold it tightly in my heart. Surely that is a sign of their belief in me.
Either that, or Salonius the god of mistakes has tricked us all.
With no one there to see, I throw myself to the ground and crawl toward the edge of the pavilion so I may slip under. But the tent is held firmly in place by a wooden peg. No matter how hard I pull, it will not budge. Swearing, I take a knife and begin stabbing at the dirt around the peg, trying to loosen it. Finally, after long painful seconds, I am able to wiggle it out. I pause to be certain my actions have not been noticed—either inside the tent or out—then slip under the heavy silk.
I pause, listening. There. Voices. Arguing. It is a man—the king?—and a woman.
“And I told you I did not want to use cannon.” As he talks, I begin to creep forward on my belly, using the trunks by the royal bed to hide my movements. “The entire point of this exercise was to intimidate her, not to destroy the town and all its inhabitants. She is utterly surrounded; her country is in our hands. We have only to wait for her to recognize it.”
“You are too soft.” The woman’s voice is thick with scorn. “She has given us no indication she is even considering surrendering.” I slowly pull Arduinna’s arrow from my quiver, then raise my head to peer over the thick leather chest in front of me.
“Her sister has just died.” The king’s voice is gentle, compassionate even. “She is likely clouded with grief, as I would be should you die, dear sister.” There is a faint dry note in his voice that has me wondering if he would truly be as distraught as he claims.
“We must put an end to this farce.”
“And we will. In good time. But we will not be using the cannon. Now, would you like to give the order? Because I know how much you dislike it when I countermand your orders in front of the men.”
There is a long, tense moment before the regent says, “I will do it.”
Boom! An earsplitting crack of thunder fills the camp, reverberating through the valley.
The king’s head snaps up, and he glares at his sister. She shakes her head. “I did not order that,” she says, then hurries from the tent. To my surprise, after a moment’s hesitation, the king follows her.
I am frozen to the spot with shock as I watch my chance for averting this war stride out of the pavilion. What now?
I shove the arrow back in my quiver and rise to my knees. The king’s tent is empty except for the two guards that stand just inside the tent flap. If I go back the way I came, I will run into Balthazaar, who will do everything he can to prevent me from burrowing deeper into the enemy’s encampment.
Which means I will have to fight past the two guards.