Authors: Nancy Springer
“Even longer, for Ket or Roran to get here,” Hal added. “I don't know where else to look for aid .... But until some comes, we must survive."
They watched the men planting pieces of sharpened lumber in the ground, angling the pointed stakes outward into a sort of Forest of spiky trees to shelter Craig's archers. There was no other shelter on this featureless plain, not even a swell in the ground. Behind this makeshift fence, Hal and his army would have to await the enemy charge, in the morning.
He did not sleep much that night, pacing through the hours as restlessly as his sentries. Though Rafe would not say it, he knew that even survival might be impossible. He flinched away from thoughts of Laueroc, not wanting to wonder whether Alan was wounded, even dead .... He envisioned Rosemary, safe in her tower at Celydon, and held that dream for as long as he could. Some comfort in that; nothing threatened her except his own death .... Hal gulped, and stood for a moment weak as water, longing for her embrace, and knowing he might never see her again.
Rosemary had long since left her home to ride to Hal's side. That they expected her to idle in empty Celydon, when all the land was on the move to aid her beloved! She had barely been able to restrain her impatience until the nightfall after Pelys left. Then she had bundled her hair into a helm, found herself a brown cloak and boyish boots, saddled Asfala and slipped out past the dozing old men who guarded her. Transformed into a cocky-looking lad, she traveled steadily southward. She met only harmless farm folk, for the Forest was nearly emptied of its usual inhabitants. Once she was accosted by a skulking pair of ruffians. But they quickly gave way before the bright sword she drew, never guessing that she did not know how to use it.
She rode with urgency. By the sixth day, she had made the southern reaches of the Forest. She drew rein as she came to the end of the trees and looked out over open weald. The Forest, once strange to her, had become her shelter and friend. Nemeton! All her instincts told her to stay far from that place of horrors. Yet she must go there, to find Hal. Setting her jaw, Rosemary urged Asfala onto the treeless expanse, toward the distant court city.
Six days into the campaign at Laueroc, in the fields just outside the walls, Alan lounged in his tent. His tent! He smiled with amusement at the thought. As commanding officer and declared Lord of Laueroc, he had come to merit the luxury of shelter. Cory was cleaning up after the evening meal; impressed with Alan's new status, he no longer let him help with camp chores. So Alan lay at ease, musing on the victory that was likely to be his on the morrow, when he heard footsteps outside and a voice asking, “May I come in?"
“Certainly, Blain, you may,” called Alan happily. The lanky scholar-outlaw had showed a keen understanding of the intricacies of their situation. His advice had prevented more than one mishap, and his strategems had been of significant help. Other men, Alan knew, were warmer of heart, finer of instinct and sympathy. But a mind like Blain's was not likely to be soon found again.
“May I speak with you alone?” Blain asked.
“Go ahead,” Alan replied. The outlaw glanced meaningfully at Corin, and Alan frowned with annoyance. “What ails you, Blain? You know you can speak before Corin as before myself."
“Not this time,” Blain stated mysteriously.
Alan heaved himself up to protest. But Cory had a statesman's instinct for smoothing over differences. “I must go to the well,” he remarked cheerfully, and left. Alan sat back, scowling, to hear what Blain had to say. But Blain's usual directness was given over to fumbling and hesitation.
“You are a man of great heart,” he said at last. “A man of strong will and much wisdom, but chiefly a man of great heart."
“You are not in the habit of idly paying out compliments, Blain,” replied Alan dryly. “What is on your mind?"
“The sacredness of the Sacred Kings is a tale told by conniving priests and sorcerers, to further their own ambitions and fatten their purses!” Blain spoke with sudden passion. “I have seen no gods, and I know you cleave to none, but put the poor, superstitious folk under the fear of such vengeance and they will never try to free themselves. No son of Iscovar has any better right to the throne than his manhood can win him. It should go to a man of heart, such as yourself."
An icy fist seemed to grip Alan, choking his power of speech. Blain went on, intensely: “Take it, my Lord Alan! You have the occasion and the power to grasp it, and are twice as worthy as he. For the good of the people who love you —"
Like the shock of a sudden blow, an inhuman noise overpowered the camp, a roar loud and terrible as that of an enraged lion. Cory, like the others, was paralyzed for a moment where he loitered by the well; then he dashed back toward the tent. He was in time to see Blain come stumbling out in blind panic, followed by Alan, raising his naked sword and possessed by fury. He overtook Blain in two leaps, like an attacking beast, and Blain never drew a weapon, so helpless was he in his fear. Alan pinned him to the ground with the sword at his throat, gasping out words choked with passion: “Traitor! Filthy traitor! He is the finest man that ever lived. To think that I would strike down my own brother, he who trusts and loves me!"
“Mercy, my lord,” Blain faltered.
Alan barked a short, hard laugh that sent chills down Corin's spine. “Ay, you shall have mercy—for a few moments. You do not deserve to die the clean death of the sword. You shall die a traitor's shameful death, hanging by a rope. Corin, fetch cord to tie his hands."
Cory was back in a moment, and Alan Jerked the prisoner to his knees. Cory's hands shook so that he could scarcely manage the knots. Alan took Blain's blade and sheathed his own. The blood-red rage was gone from his face, replaced by a look of unswerving purpose. “Mercy,” Blain started to plead again, but stopped at Alan's icy glance, for he saw that his death was doomed by a force greater than that of wrath.
“Waste no breath begging for mercy,” Alan told him in a low, calm voice, “but try to go out like a man, Blain. You have no gods to aid you?” Blain lowered his head as the question bit into him.
The whole camp stood gathered around, silent as the prisoner. Alan spoke to them. “This man has traitorously urged me to seize the throne of Isle from the one to whom I owe my love and allegiance. Though my rage has calmed, I cannot let him live. I do not require you to be present. Those who would not see, go with all honor."
No one moved.
“I need a hangman,” Alan went on. “I will not appoint any man to this task. Does anyone offer?"
No one moved or spoke. “Then I must do it myself,” said Alan, reaching for the rope. Gray-bearded Tynan stayed his hand. “I will do it,” he said quietly, but then several came forward, shamed by the old man. The rope was quickly knotted and fastened to the bough of a tree. A stump was set beneath it, and to this Blain walked unescorted, scarcely swaying as he was helped up and the noose placed over his head. He shook his head to the makeshift hood he was offered. With clear eyes he faced Alan in unspoken request.
“Speak,” Alan granted.
“You men of mine, stay with my lord Alan and serve him,” he told them earnestly. “Serve him well, I charge you, for my sake. I love him well, though I love myself more, and would have overthrown him when I could .... But if you serve him, perhaps my soul will gain some merit yet. And beware of pride, which has undone me.” Taking a deep breath, he turned to Alan. “I am ready,” he said.
Alan suddenly became aware that Corin stood silently by his side. “Cory,” he whispered urgently, “go to the tent.” He kept his eyes on Blain.
Few grown men would have dared to cross Alan that day, but Corin had his own notions of duty. “I am staying with you,” he said firmly. Alan shot him a piercing glance and saw no youthful defiance, only unflinching love.
The hangman waited for his signal.
“Let it be done quickly,” Alan ordered. The fellow nodded.
“Torture me no longer, my lord,” said Blain in a low voice, and Alan bit his lip to see the sweat that beaded his face. Suddenly he strode forward and showed Blain the only mercy he could: struck him hard on the forehead with the pommel of his sword. Then he jerked the stump from under his feet.
Though Blain was unconscious from the moment of Alan's sudden blow, there was no escaping the choked breath, the contorted, purple face, the convulsed body, and the jerking heels which beat a frenzied rhythm against the trunk of the tree before they slowly stilled. Blain's body took a long time to die. Alan wanted to turn away, to sob, to run, to crumple on the ground like a rag doll and beat his fists against the dirt. Many eyes watched him for signs of weakness; he did not care about them. But beside him stood Corin, and for the lad's sake Alan stood like stone.
When at last it was over, Alan asked for volunteers to tend to the burial. Only when that was done did he walk deliberately to a copse of trees darkened by the approaching night. There he leaned against a tree and vomited, and wept in shame, knowing that the strength of his rage had been proportionate to the strength of his secret desire.
Chapter Two
By the time Rosemary reached Nemeton, Hal and his army had survived one day of war. Their shelter of pointed stakes lay splintered and buried in bodies. The troops were reeling with exhaustion. A full tithe of the foot soldiers lay dead, and more were terribly wounded. Hal and his warriors, Rafe, Craig and the outlaw-archers under his command, all stood dazed and stumbling, encrusted with drying sweat and drying blood. But they held their ground. Their enemy had engulfed them, broken on them like an ocean, and their flimsy line, formed along borrowed lumber, had withstood the tide.
Yet, the army they faced the next morning scarcely seemed diminished. With sinking heart, Hal called his men into line of battle behind their shattered defenses.
“Those posts are smashed to bits,” Craig grumbled.
“I couldn't use the same ploy twice, anyway,” Hal sighed. “Today, we attack, and hope they aren't expecting it. Ready, Rafe?"
The young captain only nodded. He looked strained and pale beneath his layer of grime. Hal himself was bleary-eyed after a sleepless night spent among the wounded. Now he would not be able to spare men to tend them.
“All right. I must go to the horses.” Hal strode away, but turned back after only a few paces. “Luck, you two,” he added quietly, and went to find Robin and Arundel.
He led his mounted warriors in charge after charge that day, and the next, and the next. Rafe hurtled along after them, shouting hoarsely, his soldiers close behind. And Craig's archers took a heavy toll of the lordsmen—but it seemed that the enemy ranks never thinned. Hal and his army were pushed back, back, through the grueling days, until he could have wept, until he was past weeping. He wouldn't have blamed the troops if they had broken ranks and fled, but their valor tore at his heart. They made the enemy pay dearly for every step gained, and they paid dearly in their turn. Wounded comrades had to be left at the mercy of those arrogant lords .... And Trigg, faithful Trigg, was among the missing.
On the fourth day, only the coming of darkness saved Hal's army from being trapped against the river. “Cross the water,” he ordered when his dwindled forces regathered. “It's our only chance.” So, half swimming, half fording, exhausted beyond fear of drowning, they put the river between them and their enemy. Then each man collapsed to the damp ground, unmindful of food, fire or blankets. A deathly silence spread over the camp.
“I'll take a spell at watch,” said Craig gruffly. “A few of my men are still standing .... Hal, you look like a wraith. Go get some rest!"
“I'll try,” he mumbled. “Where, where, is Alan!” But Craig had no comfort to offer him.
There was no fighting next day, for a blessing. Seeing Craig's hard-eyed archers stationed on the shore, the lordsmen chose not to risk themselves in crossing. The enemy soldiers set to knocking together covered rafts. Grateful for their caution, Hal wandered his camp, helping where he could, taking stock. He used the gift of the elves to bring relief to many of his men, curing weariness of body and spirit. His followers regarded him with wonder, and called him the Healer King. But he had no cure to offer for death, watching his men give into mortal wounds. And he had no cure, seemingly, for his own despair.
A messenger from the north came early in the day. He left soon after, and Hal offered the men no hint of his news. But he spoke privately to Rafe and Craig. “Roran has failed. Gar of Whitewater marches on Nemeton.” They stared at him, stunned as if by a blow.
“For my own part,” Hal added, anguished, “I am not reluctant to die in such loyal company. Still, I wish you were in safety."
Rafe snorted. “This is unlucky talk, Hal. Help may yet come."
“Ay, it may,” echoed Craig. But his face was bleak.
At sundown, Hal and Craig rode the perimeter of the camp to make sure all was secure. At the outpost farthest from the river a beardless boy stood holding a fine sorrel mare. Craig was certain that Hal had gone mad, for he spurred toward this lad and hurled himself from the saddle. Trembling, Hal reached out and delicately removed the helm. As Rosemary's auburn hair tumbled about her shoulders, Hal dropped the helm and kissed her, deep and unashamed, in front of all who watched. When he released her at last, she saw that his eyes were moist.