Chapter Two
A lady-in-waiting’s hysterical cries roused Tassin when the woman ran into the Queen’s bedchamber.
“Majesty! Majesty! King Torrian attacks! We are doomed!”
Tassin sat bolt upright, finding herself still dressed in her blood-stained riding clothes. She rubbed bleary eyes as the woman wept and ran around the room, flapping her hands. Tiring of the racket, Tassin rose and grabbed the hysterical girl, putting an end to her shrieks with a slap. The girl gasped, sagged and snivelled, clutching her cheek.
Faint sounds of battle came from outside, distant shouts and screams mingled with the clash of arms and hiss of arrows. The castle walls had prevented the noise waking her, and she cursed. Her knights, it seemed, preferred her to stay abed while they fought, perhaps hoping Torrian would wake her when he claimed his bride. Why did they not just roll out a red carpet and invite him in?
A knock came at the door, and Royanne entered, her round, motherly face pale but composed, her brown hair confined in a frilly white mobcap and her generous figure clad in a dull green gown with yellow lace on the sleeves. “Are you well this morning, My Queen?”
“No. I am awakened by a brainless female with hysterics to find my castle besieged, and no one even thought to wake me when it started. When did it start?”
“Just before dawn.”
“And of course it is not going well.”
Royanne shook her head. “There are too many of them.”
“Oh, god.” Tassin sat on the bed and covered her face.
“Will you have some breakfast, My Queen?”
“How can you think of breakfast at a time like this?”
“You still have to eat. A bath and a new dress will make you feel better.” Royanne tilted her head at the snivelling girl, who scurried out.
“And smell better when Torrian claims me?” Tassin enquired.
Royanne sat beside her, sliding a plump arm around her shoulders. “Now, now. If you accept one of the others, Torrian will have to withdraw.”
“How nice. A husband who sleeps with his hounds, as well as every wench in his kingdom, or one so old that he sucks up his food through a tube and is seldom sober. A good choice.”
“Better than one who will ravish and beat you.”
Tassin sighed. “I would rather marry a peasant.”
“Don’t be like that, my dear.”
“Did you love your husband when you married him?”
Royanne nodded. “Of course.”
“So why can I not marry for love?”
“Because you are a queen, little one.”
Tassin rubbed her eyes. “It is not fair.”
“Life seldom is.”
The young Queen rose, squaring her shoulders. “I am going to see what is happening outside.”
“You should stay here, Majesty. It’s not safe out there.”
“I do not care.”
Pulling on a fur-lined jacket, she left Royanne gazing after her and marched down the corridor that led to the battlements, ignoring the frantic cries of the four ladies-in-waiting who crowded it. When she pushed open the door at the top of the last set of stairs, the sights, sounds and smells of the battle almost overwhelmed her, forcing her to pause.
A distant roar underscored the shouts and crashes of combat close at hand, and crimson splattered the castle’s stones. She stepped out into the cold dawn wind, where a sky that blushed pink with bright streaks of sunrise bathed a grisly scene with crisp light. The green-liveried bodies of dozens of her soldiers sprawled on the battlements, arrows sprouting from many of them. Some still groaned and twitched, others lay still. The stench of death and smoke fouled the air.
Tassin almost slipped on the blood-slimed stones as she headed for Sir Duxon, who issued orders to his captains while arrows hissed overhead. A wall of soldiers held the attackers at bay, defending the doorway through which she had just emerged. Sir Tyron stood beside Duxon, his tall, slender frame resplendent in polished armour. Tyron had been her father’s champion and was now hers, the finest knight in all the land, sharp of eye and mind, strong and loyal. She had first seen him on the summer’s day when he had won a jousting competition and her father had knighted him. He was now thirty, a quiet man whose skill with sword and lance had earned him the respect of his peers and the awe of the masses.
Tyron turned pale blue eyes upon her and bowed, sweeping her dirty garb with a warm glance. His eyes twinkled as he smiled, his helmet hiding the rest of his face, which, she recalled, a broken nose and a habit of cocking one brow made raffish. Gore streaked his armour and a bloody sword dangled from one fist. Sir Duxon, by contrast, was unsullied, his weapon still in its scabbard.
Bitterness tinged Duxon’s faded brown eyes as he dismissed his captains and bowed. She surveyed the carnage. A desperate battle was being lost on the walls, where Torrian’s red-liveried soldiers swarmed up notched tree trunks and makeshift ladders, pouring onto overcrowded battlements. A seething melee of sword-swinging men surged back and forth, stabbing and slashing with wild abandon.
The clash of steel was almost deafening, and the sheer brutality of their struggle chilled her stomach and made it squirm. Her men fought savagely, but the attackers swamped them, forcing them to give ground. Even as she watched, a dozen of her soldiers fell, adding to the piles of dead already littering the bloody stones. Wondering what had happened to the moat, she went to the crenulations and peered down. A section was filled in, and the invaders mounted ladders from this platform. The area was a quagmire, but men rushed about with buckets and barrows, dumping fresh soil to harden the ground. Her archers were too busy to shoot the sappers, their fire concentrated on the enemy warriors on the battlements. She met Duxon’s accusing gaze.
“They did it last night,” he said, forced to raise his voice to be heard over the din. “They killed the sentries with crossbows. My Queen, defeat is inevitable, surrender now and save these men.”
“How dare you dictate to me, Duxon? I will not marry a rapist, to be beaten and abused by him.”
“Then marry Grisson. He is an old man. You will be a widow soon enough.”
“Never! He is revolting, toothless! He stinks of age and corruption.”
Duxon’s face sagged into resentful lines. “These men die for your whimsy. When the battle is over, Torrian will have you, for it is he who is outside the gate. Then you will have no choice.”
Tassin scowled as an arrow whizzed past, dangerously close. She ignored it, but Duxon flinched.
Tyron’s soft voice spoke beside her. “It is not your place to speak to the Queen in such a tone, Duxon. It is her choice whether to fight, and your duty to obey.”
“As I do!” Duxon blustered.
“I have yet to see you draw your blade this morning.”
“My blade will drink enemy blood soon enough.”
“You see no folly in my choice, then?” she asked Tyron.
“Majesty, the battle is lost, and with it, our lives. Whether this be folly or fate I know not, but we cannot keep you safe.”
“When the castle falls, I shall fight beside my men until I die.” She turned back to Sir Duxon. “So shall the last warrior queen perish, Duxon, fighting beside her men for freedom. I will not be a queen in name only, stripped of my power, abused and held prisoner. Torrian will bear the shame of my death, and my cousin will rule. At least Torrian will have no wish to marry him.”
Duxon looked stricken. “You are young and headstrong, Majesty, but death is not the answer. Life is too precious to squander.”
Tassin raised her chin. “I prefer death to any of those three, and the choice is mine.”
The old knight’s despairing expression made his disapproval clear, and Tyron had the same anguish in his eyes. They plainly longed to save her, and Duxon might give in to the urge, but Tyron would not. Duxon shook his head at Tyron, who frowned.
As Duxon stepped towards her, an arrow thudded into his chest, punching through his armour. He staggered, his eyes widening,
then dropped to his knees. Raising his head, he rasped, “Flee, Majesty! Save yourself!”
Tassin stood frozen as Duxon’s eyes rolled back and he crashed onto the stones. A pang of sorrow impaled her heart, then her gaze was drawn back to the battle. Men fell screaming as they were hacked down, and swords clashed with vicious metallic clangs or found their mark with meaty thuds. Many of her soldiers broke and ran, only to be cut down from behind.
The remainder held the invaders at bay at great cost to themselves. The stench of blood and spilt bowels sickened her, and the sight of her men dying enraged her. Tassin drew her sword and headed for the melee. Tyron accompanied her, raising his bloody blade. A rumble of chains told her that the drawbridge was down and the invaders who swarmed into the courtyard were winching up the portcullis. The castle had fallen and her fate was sealed.