“It helps keep her mind off her father’s condition,” Croy suggested.
“Hmm. Interesting. I’ve seen how you are at court, Croy. You’re a true gallant, aren’t you? I’ve seen you walk past a coterie of fair ladies, all of them endeavoring to catch your eye, and never a single one does.” The Baron giggled. “If you were a less virtuous man, you’d have a passel of bastards by now, and no one in the kingdom would look askance at it. You might do well, in this case,” the Baron went on, choosing his words carefully, “to be warmer. My physick tells me the king will not awaken. That his body is wasting away. Before you know it, you could be the royal consort, and all it would cost you is a few encouraging words. Maybe a gentle caress now and again.”
Croy blushed and looked away. “She’s a girl of fourteen!”
The Baron giggled again. “Her mother married Ulfram when she was twelve and he was thirty. Oh, don’t look so scandalized. Such marriages are common at court, and they’re not nearly as venal as you might think. They say Ulfram didn’t lay a hand on the current queen until her breasts had swollen and her hips were round enough.”
“This is immaterial. I… have a lady of my own, though she’s far away,” Croy insisted. “I would never betray her affections.”
“Yes, yes, fine. I wish I had a son at hand, that’s all, or perhaps that I wasn’t already married myself. Someone needs to woo Bethane. She can’t possibly rule the kingdom herself-and it wouldn’t hurt our cause if we had a strong king ready to put in place.”
In gentler days Croy might have thought such talk smacked of treason. But he knew the Baron was simply being realistic. High principles were in shorter supply now than even proper arms and armor.
The Baron brought a fist down hard on his table and made the cutlery jump. “But we came together tonight to talk of manly things, not the affairs of princesses. We are here to discuss swords and blood and war.”
“Indeed,” Croy said, glad for the change in subject.
Chapter Fifty-One
The Baron sighed and looked down at his maps and reports. “Redweir has collapsed, as we expected. Morget used sappers-a strange tactic for a barbarian, but it works. The town is invested and most of its populace is dead, according to my spies.” The Baron unrolled a map and held it down on the table with a goblet and a jeweled dagger. “Two thousand men are inside its walls, under Morget’s direct leadership.”
“I’ve seen what he’s capable of now,” Croy said. “He’s proved an effective leader of men. I didn’t expect that when I first met him.”
“Leading barbarians is easy. You point them in the direction of defenseless women and untapped kegs of ale. They run after those things like a mule after a wormy apple. Here,” the Baron said, and tapped at a point on the map, on the road just north of Redweir. “Here, we have reports of messengers heading back to Helstrow. It will take them two days to get there, even if they push their horses to death. By tomorrow dusk they’ll likely be this far.” He pointed again, at a spot quite close to Easthull.
“You wish me to ambush them, milord?”
“Of course. If Morg doesn’t hear from his son in a few days, he’ll wonder what went wrong. He’ll send another contingent of troops to investigate. Not too many-a few hundred. Those are numbers we can oppose.”
Croy nodded, thinking. It would be a costly battle. For all his tireless efforts at recruiting, he’d found precious few men. He could marshal perhaps three hundred bandits and deserters and farmers who were missed in the original conscription. Against even a hundred well-trained, well-armed barbarians, he still could not guarantee a victory. The cost in blood would be staggering. “Perhaps,” he said. “But it will alert Morg to our presence here. So far we’ve stayed below his notice-the worst we’ve done to harry him could be written off as the work of bandit raiders and a few soldiers still fighting on their own.”
“That can’t last forever. Someone will see your face and tell Morg that an Ancient Blade is still at large. When that does happen, we need to capitalize on his surprise-and how it will invigorate the villeins. Better, I think, that we take the battle to him now. We need a victory, Croy. A victory to show the barbarian he is not invulnerable.”
Croy took a deep breath. A victory-a small victory-might give Morg reason to pause. It might concern him. But a major victory could shake him to his core. Give him enough of a fright to send him back east, across the mountains, and forget about Skrae for a while. One decisive stroke, made at the perfect moment, could turn everything around.
He knew Easthull didn’t see it that way. The Baron could only imagine the war stretching on for years, a bitter back and forth of sieges and countersieges as the barbarians moved west, a mile at a time. He was afraid, and Croy didn’t blame him. His own plan involved major risk, in the short term. Still, he knew he was right.
“This is the wrong time,” he said. “In a month I can double our forces, even treble them. I can send runners to the western fiefs and manors. I can recruit men from as far as Ness. And I can train them, teach them how to hold their ground. Then, when Morget withdraws from Redweir, I can meet him on the road before he can regroup with his father at Helstrow.”
“Out of the question. He has two thousand men.”
“He’ll need to leave a garrison at Redweir. That might cut his force in half. And we’ll never have another chance like this to catch one of the main chieftains by surprise. If we strike now, even if we win, Morg will strike back. He’ll scour all of Greenmarsh looking for us. We’ll be forced to disperse again-and we won’t be able to regroup before winter.”
“Hmm,” Easthull said, smoothing his map with one hand. “I see you’ve been giving this some thought, Croy.” He walked over to the narrow window at the back of the withdrawing chamber, perhaps forgetting it was covered with cloth to keep any light from escaping. “Militarily, perhaps, your plan makes good sense.”
“I’m… glad to hear you say that,” Croy said, cautiously optimistic.
“Politically, of course, it’s too large a gamble. You’ve been away from the court for too long, old friend. Even when you were there you never learned the art of statecraft. If we have a victory now, so soon after Morg’s initial success, we show him that we speak his language. He’ll treat with us then. He’ll come and make parley with me and we’ll come to some agreement. Perhaps we’ll have to let him keep some of our land, and give over some of our peasants into his thralldom. Perhaps he’ll want tribute of gold.” The Baron shrugged. “Let him have these things. The majority of Skrae will be free of this shadow. Then slowly, over time, we can negotiate for a return of what is ours.”
Croy’s blood surged in his veins. “That’s… folly.”
The Baron turned to look at him. “I beg your pardon?”
It was an insult. He was calling Easthull a fool. Duels were fought over such lapses of polite speech. Yet Croy could not stand here and listen to such drivel. Morg would never negotiate with them now. They were down on their backs, with their bellies in the air. Morg had them right where he wanted them. When dealing with barbarians, you didn’t try to talk to them. Bribing them was no use either. Ulfram V had proven that, and paid for it dearly. You responded to their force with force-and you had better be sure you could back up your feints. “Your pardon, milord. But this plan of yours-”
“I have decided on it. I await only your making it so.”
The dimly lit room was tinged with red in Croy’s vision. “I think you are forgetting something, Easthull. I’m the one who recruited our troops. I’m the one who commands them.”
“And I believe you are forgetting something, Croy.” The Baron thumped the table again. “You are a knight, and I am a baron.”
Croy could feel his hand moving toward Ghostcutter’s hilt. He forced it to stay by his side.