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A King's Word
By
Jan Vincent
For a long time King Michael of La Roche had searched for a suitable husband for Eleanor, but the sons of earls and barons would invariably fail to make an impression on his only child. She was seventeen, but already deemed too old to postpone her wedding day for much longer. Her father and her father's court would tell her so repeatedly, for the line of succession to the throne was in peril. Eleanor knew her father blamed Lady Elspeth, her dear mother, for the lack of a male heir. La Roche needed one desperately, she had been told, as rumors of conspiracy against her aged father abounded. Samuel I, King of Bildstadt, and Michael's first cousin, had already claimed the throne of La Roche, posing a real threat to the independence of the kingdom Timid knocks on the heavy door made of Altharian oak brought Eleanor's thoughts to a halt.
"Who is?"
"It's I, Milady. Galantine."
Galantine, Eleanor's faithful lady-in-waiting, the only one Eleanor dared trust in her father's court, so full of treachery and ill will.
"The door is unlocked. Do come in."
Galantine's blue eyes were bright and happy; her rosy face, framed by golden braids, displayed her careless wide smile. She made a small curtsey and came closer.
"Milady, everybody is waiting. The tournament is about to begin."
"Yes, indeed." Eleanor sighed. Her fingers played with the golden ring of the House of La Roche, as she stared out of the window, watching the white clouds against a sunny sky.
"Milady... you seem not pleased."
"Indeed I am not."
Galantine studied her lady's face -- pale as moonlight, beautiful as a heaven angel's, but so often sad and morose.
"Milady, I do not understand. The finest men of the kingdom are going to fight to have the honor, the privilege to obtain your hand... to marry you."
"If only they would be content with my hand alone."
The veiled allusion to the pleasures of the flesh made Galantine blush. Her lady was known to cause an uproar in the king's court for being so unnaturally outspoken. Lady Eleanor had reasoned with her father she could be queen without a husband, but her father had dismissed her with raucous laughter. "Childish gibberish," he said. "Childish gibberish," he repeated, failing to see those very words were breaking his child's heart.
"Milady, we must go. Your father and your mother will become impatient. The evil Iago may come with his guards... And..."
"Yes, you are right... as always. Let us go."
Eleanor led the way, her flowing satiny blue and white long dress being almost caught under Galantine's anxious feet. She inserted the royal ring back in her middle finger, realizing once more she had the royal seal, but could not be queen on her own. She needed a man to assert her authority. Eleanor wanted to scream, show her indignation at the injustice of it all; instead she just shook her head as she left the walls of La Roche. She hurried past Iago's guards at the drawbridge and before the royal stand. She hated that mellifluous bearded man her father trusted so much. Count Iago. She shivered, as she took her seat between her mother and father, making an effort to erase the count's face from her mind's eye.
Lady Elspeth smiled at her daughter, seemingly relieved that Eleanor hadn't made a scene for once. On the other hand, Michael of La Roche did not hide the displeasure caused by his daughter's late entrance. He felt too tired to rebuke her in front of his guests. Most of all, he wanted the tournament to commence, the first step to assure the independence of the kingdom. All the bravest bachelors of high birth had been invited, and whoever won the tournament would be Eleanor's husband and the next king. His cousin Samuel had sent his son, Lythe of Althar, to the tournament. At first King Michael was furious with this intrusion, but then he relented, listening to his advisors, listening to Iago... Lythe was a mediocre swordsman, the monarch was told. Samuel's son could never win the tournament. The acceptance of Lythe's challenge could forestall a bloody war between La Roche and Bildstadt, weakening Samuel's claim to the throne, should his son lose to a La Roche nobleman, a likely scenario, for the finest knights of the kingdom were present, waiting impatiently in the arena for the Royal Sign of Commencement. The tournament began and with to everyone's surprise Lythe defeated the Earls of Laisdale and Scythe. Fighting her boredom and impatience, Eleanor fixed her eyes on Lythe, a gangly young man, who apparently had improved his parrying skills enormously. She could see how the gentry of La Roche gasped every time the sword of Samuel's son broke the adversary's shield or cut through chain mail, leaving an ominous trail of blood behind. Eleanor searched for Iago, but apparently the count was nowhere near the tournament stands or the muddy arena. As the hours passed by, only four swordsmen remained: Lythe, the Duke of Laville, the Baron of Lisse, and a young man Eleanor did not recognize.
"Mother, who is that fourth knight?"
Lady Elspeth blinked and directed her attention to the horseman in a darkened armor astride a black stud. She was not able to see his features, as he wore a helmet that hid his cheeks and chin.
"I know not. Methinks he took the place of the Duke of Larousse. The dear young man has fallen ill."
For some unknown reason, the `Dark Knight' captured Eleanor's attention, her heart began to hammer in her chest, the sweat trickling down her back, producing the strangest chill. She almost could not contain her joy when the knight dismounted the Baron of Lisse and pressed his pointed blade against the throat of the man who had so doggedly chased after her for the past two years. Soon as the baron conceded defeat, the knight offered his gauntleted hand. With some reluctance the baron accepted the helping hand and stood up, making a grimace. Slowly he limped toward the end of the arena, where the pages awaited him to remove his muddied armor. With amazing agility, the knight regained his place on the imposing, majestic black horse, whose headband displayed a half moon. With an almost imperceptible heel tap, the horseman commanded the stud to make a half turn. For a moment, Eleanor's eyes caught his gaze. Piercing eyes they were, Eleanor realized, even if that intriguing man was about fifty feet away from her. The eye contact did not last long, as the knight suddenly instigated his mount to gallop to the end of the arena, where he would wait for the outcome of the duel between the Duke of Laville and Lythe of Althar.
To everyone's horror, Lythe killed the duke, thrusting his sword across his chest, in spite of the duke's protective armor and the chain mail under it. It seemed as though Samuel's son had a pact with the Unnamed One, and this one must be Iago, Eleanor thought, overcome with sudden bitterness. The princess and the whole royal stand sat breathless when the Dark Knight yelled an outlandish war cry and charged toward Lythe. Using his long legs, Lythe climbed back to his bay mount effortlessly, but before he could defend himself his head was severed from his body with a clean sweep of the knight's sword.
"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," the knight shouted with a husky voice. "My brother's death is avenged."
Immediately the nobility of La Roche stood and clapped and praised the young man's bravery. With a much relieved expression King Michael signaled the knight to approach the royal stand. The young man and the dark stud obeyed; Eleanor had to avert the knight's probing stare. She realized they were light blue, his eyes, like the morning sky, like the color of her own dress Her heart beat faster again, her hands balled up into tight fists.
"Reveal yourself, young man. Who are you?"
Eleanor looked at her father, surprised. Didn't he know who that man was?
A moment of enormous tension rippled through the arena, as the knight unbuckled the chin-strap of his helmet.
Eleanor covered the mouth with her hand, her neck craning in disbelief. But he was... but he was... a WOMAN? That very question raged through the arena like wildfire. Eleanor let herself fall on her chair, dizzy and flabbergasted. The Dark Knight was a woman, with long golden strands and with a face as feminine as her own.
With a feline grin the woman stared at Eleanor, bringing the hilt of her upturned sword near her own face, the Sign of Victory Offered. That meant she bestowed her win upon the princess. That meant the horsewoman was claiming her right to marry the king's daughter.
King Michael cleared his throat, making a huge effort to remain calm. "Who are you? Are you a witch?"
"I just saved your kingdom from your most hated cousin," the woman replied, sheathing her sword, "and you, Sire, accuse me of witchcraft."
"No woman can fight like you did."
"Sire, I can assure you I am no witch. I am the Duke of Larousse's daughter I am Gwendolynne of Larousse, your goddaughter, baptized where the River of Love meets the Lake of Forgiveness."
"Gwendolynne of Larousse? You?"
"I am nineteen now, Sire. I am no longer the child you promised to keep from harm." Seeing the utter disbelief in everybody's faces, Gwendolynne pulled a golden necklace from under her armor. Dangling from it, the seal of the House of Larousse sparkled in the midday sun. "I came here to avenge my brother's death. He was poisoned two days ago by a King Samuel's lackey. It seems as though your cousin, Sire, will stop at nothing to eliminate the opposition to the annexation of La Roche by the Kingdom of Bildstadt."
"What in hell's name happened?"
The esquire drew back and away from the Chancellor of the Kingdom, whose bloodshot eyes betrayed his ire.
"Milord, the plan failed. A woman won the tournament."
"A woman? A WOMAN? Speak some sense, you worthless heap of rubbish. A woman, you said?"
"Yes, Milord. The Duke of Larousse's sister, Lady Gwendolynne."
"Gwendolynne? Gwendolynne of Larousse?"
"Yes, Milord."
Count Iago remained pensive for a moment, then asked, "And where is this... woman?"
"She was taken to the Wing of the Princess to dress a more fitting attire for a lady of her status. His Majesty has invited her for the banquet and she will be--"
"And where's Lord Althar?" Count Iago cut in, too impatient to wait for the esquire's explanation.
"Dead, Milord. Lady Gwendolynne killed him. She found out about--"
"Enough, Gaydar. Not a word about that matter. Do you hear?"
Count Iago left the royal guards' barracks and hurried back to the palace. He had missed the tournament because of a badly timed rendezvous with King Samuel's emissary. If he had been on the arena he could have seen it coming... And now Samuel's son was dead. The Chancellor of the Kingdom realized his own head and body were in real danger of being separated from each other in a very violent fashion.
He had to devise a scheme to divert the anger of King Samuel away from him. Revenge, perhaps, he considered. Yes, that would do.
"Where did you learn the art of the sword, Lady Larousse?"
Gwendolynne studied the reserved countenance of Eleanor. She had never seen such a beautiful maiden, with smooth long reddish brown hair that shone and smelled like fresh roses. Eleanor kept stealing quick glances at her, her dark green eyes showing her innate guarded curiosity.
"With my father and my brother, after a lot of begging and cajoling."
"I heard your brother was the favorite knight before the commencement of the tournament," Eleanor said, as Galantine helped the blond woman remove one of the cuisses from her thighs.
"Swordsmanship runs in the family." Gwendolynne smiled, taking off the gauntlets. "My great-great-grandfather became the Duke of Larousse when he helped your great-grandfather, King Louis III, in the battle of Aix-la-Paix against the House of Bildstadt." Gwendolynne gave a sigh of relief as the chain mail was lifted from her. Despite being specially tailored for a female, that piece of protective clothing was still heavy and somewhat cumbersome. Eleanor's eyes fell on the breasts of that unusual knight, recognizing the curves and the softness of a female hidden by a loose white chemise soaked with sweat. Eleanor blushed as she realized Gwendolynne had caught her indiscreet stare. Again she was able to see that feline grin on the blond woman's face, which frightened and fascinated her at the same time.
"I will leave now," said Eleanor. "Galantine will prepare you a warm bath."
"Milady, do not leave on my account. I have three sisters and I am dressed by them every day." Having said that, Gwendolynne tugged the chemise over her shoulders, revealing the most beautiful body Eleanor had ever seen. Gwendolynne's arms and torso had a visible healthy tone, her breasts were round and firm as pomegranates, her slender ribcage and waist, half covered by her long golden tresses, betrayed the femaleness of that cat-like creature.
When Gwendolynne removed her culottes, helped by Galantine, Eleanor turned away, ashamed by the reactions of her own body, feeling her nipples press against the smoothness of the fabric of her dress. "I must go," she said, her heart galloping like a wild horse. "Galantine will look after you."
With a hurried pace Eleanor left her room and that strange young woman, only two years older than she, but... so mature, so... full of energy, so... love-worthy. Eleanor sighed, her eyes becoming moist suddenly. Against the cold wall of the palace, she sobbed silently, being assaulted by that indelible image... that feline face grinning, those strong feminine hands making the Sign of Victory Offered, claiming the title of champion and the right to hold her hand.
It had been such a disappointment to learn the Dark Knight was a woman, Eleanor mused. Her father had dismissed Gwendolynne's claim to her hand as "childish gibberish". A maiden cannot marry another maiden, Lady Elspeth had explained to her, as though her daughter had not grasped the political consequences of Gwendolynne's victory.
A moving shadow made her straighten herself up in a blink of an eye. It was Iago, judging by the furtiveness of the approaching footsteps.
"Lady Eleanor... As always, a sight for sore eyes."
"Count Iago, what are you doing here? Surely you must know that even the Chancellor of the Kingdom is not allowed in this wing of the palace without my or the king's permission."
"I beg your pardon, Milady. Having missed the tournament due to other pressing matters, I was terribly curious about the sensational winner of the tournament. Lady Gwendolynne of Larousse, I hear. And therefore I asked His Majesty's permission to pay a visit to Lady Gwendolynne, which your father graciously conceded to this servant of Your Ladyship." Iago smiled and bowed before her.
"You may not. Lady Gwendolynne is readying herself for the banquet. Please, leave."
"Your wish is my command, Milady." Iago again smiled, repeating the respectful bow.
Eleanor stood still, watching the long-legged, thin figure descend the stairs solemnly, his left hand holding the hilt of his sheathed sword. She sighed, and again she experienced a chill, while her temples throbbed, forewarning her of impending danger.
The arrival of Lady Gwendolynne of Larousse at the imposing entrance of the Hall of All Saints, where the banquet was to take place, ceased all the animated chattering among the guests of the king. Once again Eleanor could not believe her eyes. Gwendolynne's long blond tresses shone like the midday sun, and her pastel eyes were magnets in a lively, exquisite face, tanned by the elements. It was reasonable to say that Lady Larousse was at least as beautiful and feminine as any of the fairest ladies of the kingdom. And that confident grin... And the fact that that young woman had vanquished the best knights of La Roche and the son of King Samuel was beyond comprehension.
Eleanor swallowed, taking a deep breath, as she noticed that Gwendolynne had chosen one of her favorite dresses, a cream dress Lady Elspeth had offered her when she turned sixteen.
"Your Majesty," Gwendolynne said, making a curtsey.
"Lady Gwendolynne, my forgotten goddaughter," Michael of La Roche greeted. "Please, be welcome."
"I only wished the Duchy of Larousse was not so far away, so that you, Sire, could visit the modest house of my forefathers more often."
"Yes, indeed. I lament the loss of your brother. The House of Larousse has always been the most faithful among the noble houses of La Roche. The Crown is indebted to you. Please, come and sit next to me, so that you can recount how you learned the manly art of the sword."
Eleanor saw Gwendolynne's red lips purse in an enigmatic smile. The princess promptly lowered her eyes, evading Gwendolynne's stare. A cat, she was a cat... or rather a lioness... pacing back and forth before pouncing upon her prey. She moved her chair aside and away from her father's. A page readily set down a new chair for the blond noblewoman in the space between at the royal table. When Gwendolynne sat down next to her, Eleanor was able to see the woman's -- girl's? -- profile. She had Celtic blood, no doubt, Eleanor thought, her pulse accelerating. She had always admired the Celtic faces, fair as the summer wheat, with eyes as pure as the sea. And as though the blond woman understood what she was thinking, Gwendolynne's smile grew without facing her. She felt Gwendolynne's hands searching hers, until their fingers met and interlocked. Eleanor's ears ignored the conversation between her father and Gwendolynne. All she could sense was that cold hand clasping hers, and the curious staring from the men and women of the court sitting at the sizable banquet table opposite the smaller royal table. She could hear how the courtiers whispered and let out short-lived laughs, afraid lest they annoyed the king. She hated their hypocrisy the most, and before her anger could set in, she heard, "Your Ladyship?"
She turned to see Gwendolynne's face very close to hers. "Yes, Lady Larousse?"
"You're hurting me."
"Hurting you?"
"Yes, my hand. Hands are like swords, Milady... To wield one well one must handle it as one handles a dove: sweetly and gently, so that one can feel what the sword tells oneself. Do not grip it as a torture vise until it becomes bloodless."
Releasing Gwendolynne's hand at once, Eleanor said, "I'm, I'm sorry." The blond woman smiled and grabbed Eleanor's hand once again, her fingers searching Eleanor's. Eleanor gasped.
The ten courses of the lavish banquet were consumed sparingly by both young women, whereas the king and his guests had no such qualms about self-indulgence. Wine flowed freely down thirsty throats, as the troubadours sang their songs of love, friendship and mordant wit. With utmost delight Friar Lavigne ate his third course -- stuffed veal with onions and raisins, the right price for his daily sermon at the pulpit of the palace's church.
From time to time, against her own will, Eleanor's eyes fell prey to Count Iago's stare. "The horrible man," she thought, "the horrible man is smiling at me. Dear God, protect me from this evil."
On one of those occasions, the count stood and said, "Sire, may I speak?"
"Indeed, you may," the king replied, taking another bite off a succulent chicken leg with his precarious teeth.
"Sire, I would like to propose a toast. Lady Gwendolynne of Larousse has impressed us with her swordsmanship skills we thought, wrongly I must add, exclusive to the world of men. She proved, beyond any doubt, that women can be as valiant and courageous as any man."
The king and a large part of the guests interrupted their gluttonous fest to pay attention to the Chancellor's discourse. Eleanor remained intrigued, sensing treachery in the air.
"I want to congratulate Lady Larousse for such a magnificent display of wit and strength," Iago continued, facing the young woman in question. "I humbly raise my chalice to praise this lady of many virtues."
The king smiled and with some difficulty he rose to his feet. Looking down at Gwendolynne, he gestured she could remain seated, unlike the other guests, who had sprung to their feet as soon as their ruler stood. "I make the Chancellor's words mine. Lady Larousse, the Crown of La Roche is indebted to you, and I will grant you the title of "Duke of Larousse". Now that your father and brother are dead, a strong, courageous hand is needed in that recondite corner of my kingdom."
"Thank you, Sire." Gwendolynne made another attempt at getting to her feet, but the old man kept preventing her from thanking him properly. "I'm at a loss for words."
"Nonsense," the king said, letting himself fall on his chair. "Words are not needed at this time." Michael of La Roche sniffled and coughed, taking yet another avid sip of wine.
"Sire," Iago said, still standing and holding his drinking cup made of silver and gold. "Would you be so kind to allow me to complete my praises for Lady Larousse?"
"Yes, yes... but hurry up, Chancellor."
"Thank you, Your Majesty. Your kindness is endless."
With a fleeting wave, the king beckoned him he should haste and end his speech at once. The old man was impatient, the monarch's mood souring as his eyelids grew heavier because of the wine he had ingested so liberally.
"It seems to me ," Iago continued, "that Lady Larousse deserves all the honors, some of them reserved to men. She saved us from an uncertain fate, at the hands of King Samuel's son."
"Chancellor," the king sighed, "did I not bestow the title of the House of Larousse upon my goddaughter in this very hall?"
"Indeed, Sire. Nonetheless, I am referring to another unprecedented honor."
"Which one?"
"The princess's hand."
A gelid silence froze the hall of the banquet. Eleanor's eyes bulged out, incredulous.
"The princess's hand?" the king roared, getting to his feet. The king's guests stood as well, their faces frightened and unbelieving. "Are you MAD?"
"No, Sire," the count replied with utmost aplomb. "But Lady Larousse did win the tournament. And according to your word, Sire, she has the right to claim Lady Eleanor's hand, which she did... Every man and woman in this very hall saw Lady Larousse make the Sign of Victory Offered, which makes her the Champion of the Tournament, and Lady Eleanor's future consort."
"She is a WOMAN, Count Iago. She has no right to claim that. It's against the Scriptures. A woman cannot marry another woman. Isn't that so, Friar Lavigne?"
The monk woke up from his alcoholic lethargy and stuttered, "S... Sire?"
"Can a woman marry another woman according to the Scriptures?"
"A woman marry a... woman, Sire?"
"Yes, that's my question."
And before the round man could organize his thoughts in order to give an enlightened answer, Gwendolynne said, "Sire, may I speak?" The king wavered for a short moment before he allowed himself to nod. "Sire, I claimed Lady Eleanor's hand, because it seemed the wisest thing to do at the moment of the tournament. I am Lady Eleanor's champion, because I came here to avenge my brother's death and prevent Lythe of Althar from winning, Sire. In any case, I will never marry someone against his or her will. I am sure your daughter, our future queen, would never accept me as her consort."
"I do."
Every stare moved from Gwendolynne to Eleanor.
"You do?" the king asked, his breathing becoming dangerously labored.
"I do, father. I want Gwendolynne to be my consort."
"Don't be ridiculous! How do you want to give birth to a heir if you marry a woman? How, in God's name?"
"We'll find a way. And I know she will protect me, as she did today. As she protected the Kingdom of La Roche from King Samuel's evil schemes."
Gwendolynne grinned at Eleanor, seemingly satisfied by Eleanor's display of courage and determination.
"No! I will not allow it! A woman marrying another woman is against nature."
"Sire," Iago said, "may I speak?"
"By all means, Chancellor. If you have a solution for the commotion you just caused."
The count ignored the king's remark, blinking his dark brown eyes. "The simplest solution is to keep your word, Sire. A king's word is sacred."
King Michael's yellowish, bleary eyes stared at the bearded man and wondered whether his daughter had been right all those years. Could he be a traitor? A spy paid by Samuel's Kreutzer, the golden coins of Bildstadt?
"Why do you insist in this folly, Chancellor? Do you think there will be a nobleman who would accept such an arrangement? I would have a rebellion in my hands before you could utter `Amen'."
"You're right, Sire," Iago admitted, seemingly crestfallen. "I didn't think of that. Forgive my impertinence. Lady Eleanor's consort must be above suspicion. Indeed."
"Above suspicion?" Eleanor asked, holding her anger in check. "What do you mean, Count Iago?"
Iago blinked his eyes again, as if the princess's question had caught him off guard. "Above suspicion?" he said slowly, measuring his own words. "Oh, yes, of course... Witchcraft... But that's nonsense, undoubtedly, for Lady Larousse is your father's goddaughter. And she couldn't possibly... I will hold my tongue now. I've already said too much. It must be the wine." With a quick bow, the count excused himself and left the hall, followed by his personal guard.
Eleanor bit her lips, experiencing an urge to scream and display her ire and hatred. She could see her father had become eerily silent upon that innuendo. The count had reminded the king of his earlier accusation, the perfect excuse to prevent her union with Gwendolynne. Witchcraft... a hateful accusation, that could bring the blond noblewoman to the stake, should she be found guilty by the Inquisition court. With a pounding heart, Eleanor rose to her feet and announced she was going to retire. As Gwendolynne remained seated, she said, "Would Lady Larousse care for escorting me to my room?"
"Certainly, Milady."
Promptly Gwendolynne joined Eleanor and Galantine. The three women abandoned the hall, still full of guests who wouldn't dare to leave before the king did. With a hasty pace, the young women entered Eleanor's room, Galantine closing the door behind them.
"I knew it. I just knew it."
"What, Milady?" Gwendolynne asked. "That I am a witch?"
"No, I just knew that Iago was setting up a trap. And I just fell in it."
"Count Iago is a dangerous man. But I am not worried. I will leave tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes, Milady. It's obvious your father will not keep his word. Thanks to Count Iago and his sharp tongue."
Eleanor felt an invisible hand grip her heart. A chill of fear ran down her spine. Throwing herself at Gwendolynne's feet, she begged, "Please, don't leave. Please!"
Gwendolynne knelt before Eleanor, her attractive features, her shiny pastel eyes becoming worried. "Milady, I must go, or Count Iago will find a way to incriminate me and send me to the Inquisition dungeons. I will not stand a chance if--"
Suddenly, the three women gave a simultaneous start. Someone had given the door of the room three powerful knocks.
"Who is?" Eleanor asked, her breathing becoming ragged, painful.
"Gaydar, Milady. I respectfully request you to open the door."
Gaydar, Iago's esquire, a tall man with carrot hair and a nervous freckled face, Eleanor recollected. Rumors had it he was one of the many Iago's bastard sons.
"Leave, Gaydar. You are not allowed in. Leave, or I'll report you to my father."
"It was your father who sent me, Your Ladyship. I must come in."
"For what reason?"
There was a pause before Gaydar replied. "I must take Lady Larousse to the Tower. She will be tried for witchcraft within two days."
The Inquisition trial was swift and conclusive. Lady Gwendolynne of Larousse was guilty of witchcraft and consortium with the Unnamed One. Eleanor watched that mockery of a fair trial with anger and outrage. She recalled Gwendolynne's sad expression when she, the king's daughter, was expelled from the Holy Court by Friar Lavigne. Her protests were disrespectful, she was told. She had shouted out loud her indignation at the unfounded accusations and the ridiculous evidence supporting them. Gwendolynne was a witch because no woman could win a tournament against the best knights of the kingdom. Gwendolynne was a witch because she wanted to marry another woman. Gwendolynne was a witch because she dared cross-dress and deceive the king and the gentry of La Roche into believing she was a man when she was not. Her strength, her superb swordsmanship were clearly the work of the Unnamed One. It had to be.
From the small balcony of her room she could see the servants of the palace gathering a huge heap of dry firewood around the stake to where her beloved Gwendolynne would be tied. Dry wood would make sure smoke would not suffocate her before the flames burned her flesh and caused her unimaginable pain. Iago saw to that, Eleanor was sure of it.
The princess sighed, staring at the donjon once more. Her teary eyes squinted, trying to discern Gwendolynne's beautiful face in the tiny window of her prison cell. She brought her trembling hands to her eyes, drying them off, fighting the sense of despair and powerlessness that kept gnawing at her without remorse.
On the next day Eleanor awoke with a severe headache, feeling a strange pressure in her temples. She looked out the window and saw the dawn dyeing the sky blood red. It was appropriate as Gwendolynne would be burned at the stake at midday. She had had a nightmarish night, had vomited, had stayed on her knees, praying for a miracle to happen. But the sun had risen and the miracle did not come to pass, yet. The `miracle' would eventually take place, though it would carry a dreadful price.
It was just a rumor at first, then it became a certainty. King Samuel and his army had invaded the Kingdom of La Roche. He came to avenge his son's death. The fight hadn't been fair -- a simple mortal against a witch. Eleanor's father sent ambassadors to appease his cousin, to barter the witch for Samuel's retreat, but the monarch of Bildstadt had them killed.
When La Roche became under siege, panic and confusion broke out within the walls of the castle and the royal palace. Eleanor sent for Galantine. They were going to free Gwendolynne, even if that was the last thing they did. The siege was supposed to last months, but it only took an hour before a traitor was able to lower the drawbridge and open the main gate. Iago... always him, Eleanor thought, as she ran to the secret passage leading to the donjon, only known by the royal family members.
As Eleanor and Galantine burst in the main hall inside the donjon, a dozen of swords were unsheathed. Instantly Eleanor recognized Gaydar, the man in charge.
"Gaydar, my father has ordered the release of Lady Larousse. She must come with me, so that my father can negotiate with King Samuel."
"It's too late for that," he said, trying to sound self-assured.
"I know a secret way out. I will show it to you if you release Gwendolynne. Otherwise you will die as your father did, at the hands of King Samuel."
"My father, Milady? What do you mean?"
"Count Iago has just been killed by Samuel's men." And pointing to a loophole, Eleanor added, "Look outside and you'll see that I am telling you the truth."
Gaydar's eyes obeyed, and the pale skin of the freckled man became even paler. A moment of hesitation came. Gaydar stared at his men, then at the expectant young women, while screams of horror and the clashing sounds of swords and armors reverberated from the outside through the naked walls of the donjon. "Release the witch," he said, lowering his eyes as if to hide his anger. "Release the goddamned witch."
It took an hour before the group of the three women and the twelve guards left the long secret tunnel. They looked around, realizing they were in the outskirts of the Wood of Sighs, an enchanted place where the Pixies lived. Eleanor turned toward the Castle of La Roche, gasping.
"La Roche is on fire!" Galantine said in a lament. "Oh dear Lord!"
When she saw the towering column of smoke billowing upwards, Eleanor screamed, "Mother! Father! My God! He killed them, he assassinated them. Oh God!"
Gwendolynne did her best to calm a writhing Eleanor, feeling the pain her princess was bellowing out loud. She knew how it was like to lose both parents. She knew what the word `orphan' meant. At long last, Eleanor became quiet, being lulled into sleep by gentle shushing and soft singing of old troubadour songs in the arms of Gwendolynne.
After ten days and ten nights the three young women and their impromptu personal guard reached the Duchy of Larousse. With awe Eleanor saw how loved Gwendolynne was. Men and women, noblemen and peasants alike came to hail her welcome. The destruction of the Castle of La Roche was already known, and a clamor for retribution for La Roche's defeat could be heard everywhere. But revenge was not what worried Eleanor or Gwendolynne the most.
After a long bath in the palace of Gwendolynne's forefathers the two women faced each other.
"Eleanor."
"Yes?"
"Will you marry me?"
Eleanor smiled, despite the sadness still weighing her heart down.
"Will you?" Gwendolynne insisted.
"Yes, I will."
It was Gwendolynne's turn to smile, clasping Eleanor's warmer hand in her hands. The kiss and the lovemaking would come later.
THE END