Earning the Love of a Princess-Chapter 159: Two Crowns for a King

William was woken that night by the yells of men and the whinnying of terrified horses. As he stumbled out of his tent and looked around, the saw the entire camp descending into disarray as men tried in vain to smother columns of fierce flames with blankets and canvas tarps.

Moraigthians must have snuck into the camp again and deliberately set fires. William clutched a handful of his hair in rage.

At first, it appeared as if the fires were contained in a relatively small area, instead of being widespread through the small city of tents. That gave William hope that the consequences would be relatively minor - an annoyance as opposed to serious harm.

It was only when he got closer to the flames and realised what they were consuming, that despair pressed on his chest like a leaden weight.

Almost every wagon containing the army’s food rations and horse fodder was ablaze. The fires sent sparks high into the night sky and emitted a deafening roar as they consumed the precious resources with frightening speed.

Before William’s eyes, the men were desperately battling to save what little could be salvaged. He turned away, no longer able to bear hearing their urgent cries or watching the futility of their efforts.

Almost everything was lost.

The Islian army was trapped by the River Caine on one side and surrounded by mile upon mile of bare, scorched terrain in all other directions. Anything that once grew, even the last blade of grass, had been burned by the Moraigthians in their retreat the previous week.

Even if a messager left for the south that very moment, it would take almost a fortnight before wagons with enough supplies for the entire army would reach them.

They’d have to resort to eating their horses or simply wait for hunger and weakness to end them all.

William opened his eyes slowly, never having felt such fear or hopelessness on the battlefield. He saw the formidable King Edward almost appear to shrink into himself. The steely, hardened veteran of so many triumphant campaigns suddenly looked like a broken old man.

Even Leo’s voice, usually so harsh and forceful, quivered fearfully as his glazed eyes looked at the smouldering remains of their rations. "Lord have mercy upon us and our men." he said softly. "We must win this war decisively within the next few days, or we’ll all starve to death."

- - -

The next day dawned with brilliant clear skies, as if nature were choosing to blithely ignore the dire straits the Islians found themselves in.

William sat in King Edward’s tent alongside his cousins and the most senior army captains. Every face within the tent was haggard with strain. Clearly no one had slept.

William felt completely numb, as if their bleak situation had ended his ability to feel anything beyond bone deep resignation.

He remembered telling Camilla he’d always been lucky on the battlefield. Now, his good fortune was gone.

William almost smiled when he realised this is perhaps how Camilla’s father had once felt. The Duke or Arlington had lead a charmed life until the day he suddenly hadn’t. Duke Robert must have just expected his great luck to continue, until the day that Fortuna suddenly turned against him and everything he thought was his, was gradually taken away. Including his life.

"If our army continues consuming food and fodder at the rate we have been to date, how long will our supplies last?" King Edward asked, his face emotionless.

"Four days at the very most." Leo replied, his face equally blank. "We managed to salvage some of what was set alight. Therefore we must make the decision whether to start reducing rations now and eke out what remains for a few more days or-"

"No." the king replied firmly. "Reducing rations will mean we’ll still be close to death in less than a fortnight. A half fed army will be picked off easily. Better to continue as we are and face the Moraigthians now at full strength, than linger in hunger and face them later when we’re weak."

"But Father," Prince James protested quietly. "If we do as you say, we must force a decisive battle within the next two days. Even then, we might not win."

"It’s a great gamble, yes." the king’s voice was frosty. "It’s the very last card we have to play. But I would rather meet my end fighting with all the vigour I have, than face my enemy when I’m on my knees with hunger. If I’m to die either way, I’ll die with my pride intact."

"If we lose, then we may as well hand Kenneth the crown of Islia." Prince Leo grunted. "No man from the House of Devon who is captured, can expect to live. It will be our sons who’ll have to eventually reclaim our throne from those savages."

"We’d better not lose, then!" Edward snarled like a lion. "Unless you want to see my crown on Kenneth’s head instead of your own!"

William tried to imagine the world Leo was describing. If King Edward and the generation of Devon men after him were all to perish, the throne would go to Leo’s son, a spoiled eight year old also named Edward.

A boy king with his equally spoiled mother as his regent? William almost laughed. Islia would lose its independence and be under Moraigth’s yoke for at least a generation.

Leo’s face paled. "Then we must send our scouts out immediately to ensure our way is clear. And we’ll prepare the camp so that everyone is packed and ready to depart before sunrise."

Without warning, James stabbed his dagger into the large map spread before the men, the tip digging into a large field a dozen miles from their current location. "Here. This will be the site of our decisive battle. The ground slopes gently downhill, so we’ll have a slight advantage. And lord knows, we need every advantage we can find."

Another march, thought William apathetically. It would very likely be the final one of this cursed campaign. A resolution had to be reached within four days, one way or the other.

Eventually, William and the rest of the men trudged out of the tent in grim silence, to instruct their battalions of the next moves. Once he had spoken to his men, he crawled into the tent and sank to the ground, despair gnawing at him.

William had never really feared death before. He acknowledged this was partly due to the arrogance of youth. But now, reality set in. Being young and strong and clever was no guarantee he still wouldn’t die.

And now he feared death because he’d finally found someone to live for.

- - -

Dinner that evening was earlier than usual, at King Edward’s command. Everyone was to retire early and be ready to start a fast, punishing march at sunrise. There was a mournful air across the entire camp as rations were quietly distributed.

William ducked back into his tent after he finished eating, too sick in his soul to speak to anyone. He lay on his back and stared at the rough canvas over his head until a restless sleep finally overtook him.

He sat up suddenly with a gasp, heart racing. The nightmarish, blood soaked battle scene before eyes quickly vanished. Lying back, William closed his eyes again and slowed his breathing but sleep refused to come.

After thrashing around uncomfortably for what seemed like hours, he decided to go for a walk. Anything was better than being stuck in a tent with his own depressing thoughts.

William tugged on his shirt and boots, then slipped outside. There was a half moon out of almost impossible beauty, bathing the silent camp in silvery light. He saw the guards on patrol and deliberately headed in a different direction.

He walked aimlessly for a while, until he found himself at the edge of a small forest. The charred remains of the scorched trees looked like dozens of gnarled hands clawing towards the sky.

William leaned back against one of the trunks, closing his eyes and picturing the face of his beloved. Was she thinking of him at the very same moment? How was she filling the long, muggy days at Westerhaven?

A soft rustling sound reached him. He figured it was just the breeze toying with the bare branches - until he heard it again.

This time, it was followed by the low but unmistakable murmur of voices. At least two voices.

William silently unsheathed his dagger and crept deeper into the cluster of trees. It suddenly occurred to him that the bastards who’d snuck into the camp the previous night and set the supply wagons on fire, may well have hidden themselves here. Though what William couldn’t work out, was how the enemy managed to evade the Islian night guards.

The voices were a little louder now, enough for William to detect the strange, lilting Moraigthian accent to at least one voice.

Vowing to gut every last one of them, he peered around the large tree trunk hiding him.