Chapter 22: The Authority
I walked quickly away from that tent. Toward campfires. Where I’d doled out ale for the troops. I needed Morrentz, but he was probably dead, and I needed advice. What to do? The dowager controlled the army, but I was the rightful heir.
And now a murderer. Could a princess be held liable for that? He deserved killing.
A line of men fastened to poles stopped me. Their hands tied above their heads, stretched out, feet barely resting on supports. Some moaning. Others’ eyes darting around, clearly conscious. Goddamn it.
“You there!” I shouted at a campfire of men, “You and you and you, get those men down! You and you,” I pointed at each individual in turn, walking toward them, “get those men boiled water, tea, or ale. Hurry up now! These are our countrymen!”
They’d been crucified along the privy trench, facing the camp. No nails in their hands, just tied up to eventually die of thirst and exhaustion.
Rage filled me with purpose. I went from campfire to campfire, barking orders to get the men down, slake their thirst, spread the word. I looked at each man on each pole. Some had relief in their eyes, some resentment, others empty. I didn’t find my guards.
The general who had helped me earlier in the battle, crucified. His face, badly bruised and swelling, black eye. “Brundle! Let’s get you down.” I grabbed the pole, pulled myself up and cut through the ropes. He fell forward and I wasn’t quick enough to catch him. Hurrying to his side, “are you ok?”
Raspy and tired, his eyes rolled to me, “Your Highness.”
“Ale, sir! Ma’am!” A young soldier offered him a cup. The general took it.
I smiled at the young soldier, “Good man! Keep going, get these men some comfort.” Then, to the general, “Can you stand? I mean to take this camp.”
“You don’t,” he whispered, hoarse, “have the authority.”
“If my soldiers don’t want to be killed at the duke’s hands, they are the authority.”
He smiled and stood up. “Let’s get the men in formation and take the command tent.”
“Whose side are the cavalry on?”
“Your brother’s, mainly, but the duke has his own, too.”
“And if we capture the duke and the dowager-regent, they will not fight against us?”
“That is my hope.”
“And if the dowager is killed, who is in command? Me?”
“Your cousin.”
“Seems like a fair trade then.”
“No, your cousin is . . .” he trailed off.
“Listen, we’re ignoring protocol right now, speak your mind.”
“He is a heinous, vile tyrant.”
I said this more to myself than him, turning away slightly and smashing my right fist into my left hand, “Fuck this sexist place. I’m tempted to go full murder-hobo and kill every last one of them.” He was staring. “Never mind. Let’s get this done.”
The general tossed back his ale, we rushed to a campfire to ready the men. Everywhere was busy, most of the crucified were down. I still hadn’t seen my guards and that saddened me, but there was no time to worry. Soldiers were gathering around us, some armed, some being handed arms.
I raised my voice, “Alright. The duke and dowager-regent have betrayed you! Betrayed my brother, betrayed our lands, your families! They invited the enemy here to steal everything from us – from me, from you! Are we going to allow that?”
Silence, a few mutterings. I guess they weren’t used to audience participation.
“I said are we going to allow that???” Gesturing to get them involved.
“No!”
“Louder!”
“NO!”
“Form up! We march on the command tent. We take care of our own!”
Someone in the back shouted, “Our own!” So, I pumped my sword in the air and repeated “Our own!” and the men around me joined in, “Our own! Our own! Our own!” And we marched on the command tent. Pikes high, shields at ready. More and more soldiers falling into formation, an army at my back.
The guards at my tent, not far away, I’d forgotten about them, were gone.
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