Earning the Love of a Princess-Chapter 162: What is Given Can Be Taken Away

25 July, 1360. Eberelle County, Northern Islia

Another dawn followed, after another restless night for the Islian forces.

The army had reached the southern edge of the Field of the Fortunate well after sunset the evening before. Like most of the men, William hadn’t even bothered trying to pitch a tent in the dark. After a meagre dinner, William had simply pulled off his armour and laid down on the ground to sleep, using his cape as a blanket. His exhaustion had been so great that even when heavy rain had started pelting him during the night, he’d just laid there, uncaring.

There was nothing to be done but wait and pray.

Wait for Kenneth to respond favourably to Perris’s message and agree to engage in battle within the next day or two.

Pray that Kenneth didn’t decide to defer a confrontation and drag things out for longer instead, knowing the Islians were on the brink of starvation.

That morning, William donned his armour again piece by piece, not caring his clothes under the metal plates were still wet from sleeping in the rain. He then took a seat next to King Edward and the other princes, and watched quietly as the precious breakfast rations were handed out. Taking small bites from his chunk of stale, hard bread and cheese, William shook his head ruefully when he remembered all the times he’d grumbled to himself about how much he hated the food on campaign.

The Devon men spoke very little as they ate, each man lost in his own thoughts. Sneaking the occasional glance at the king, William noticed a frailty in the older man’s lined face he’d never seen before.

There was still no word from Perris. In his absence, the army would have to assume that the battle was going ahead and prepare accordingly.

After breakfast, William knew the next task at hand was to start planning the assembly of the troops along the highest edges of the field. He would have to strategise, along with the other commanders, how to best arrange the various battalions. They needed to position men, beasts and heavy equipment such as the catapults, to take advantage of the gentle downward slope of the ground.

Plotting and debating battlefield strategy was something William had always enjoyed. It gave him a rush of excitement, more than even the actual clash between armies. That day however, he felt nothing but futility. He watched the men move before him, without really seeing anything.

A faint voice could be heard calling out in the distance. As it gradually grew louder, William and all the other men turned to see Rufus running towards them. His mouth wide open, Rufus was stumbling and tripping on the uneven ground in his haste to reach them. Perris was running behind him, his short frame struggling to keep up with the strides of the prince’s longer legs.

William stopped what he was doing and went to stand alongside King Edward. James, Tom and Leo all did the same as they watched the two men running, knowing that Rufus was bringing important news. The half crazed look on his cousin’s face made William ask himself what else could’ve possibly gone wrong now.

"Father! Father! Perris has a message directly from King Kenneth!" Rufus choked out as he finally reached the king, stumbling to his knees on the muddy ground. His face, once so handsome, was now sunburned and thin from illness. His cheeks were streaked with what appeared to be tears.

Bracing himself to hear what would inevitably be bad news, William closed his eyes. If the Moraigthians had declined to engage in battle, William quickly prayed that when death visited him, it would be quick and not a drawn out stretch of suffering.

Rufus couldn’t seem to decide whether to laugh or weep. He did both as the words tumbled out of him, almost garbled from excitement. "The king himself handed Perris a parchment for you, signed and stamped with his royal seal. Kenneth wishes to meet with us in great haste! He intends to sue for peace!"

"Peace? What?" croaked the king, as if the word were foreign to him. "Why? Why the fuck wouldn’t he try to press his advantage further, and use his forces to push us back again?"

"He has lost the will to fight on." Rufus’s last word caught on a sob, as he looked up at his father from the ground. "A message reached the king from Port Canfirth yesterday. His son, little Kenneth, is dead."

"The infant prince is dead?" Edward’s voice was awestruck. His eyes, usually so narrow and calculating, now widened as if he were witnessing an actual miracle.

Perhaps he was, thought William in a stupor.

Rufus nodded enthusiastically. "The boy died suddenly in his cradle two nights ago. It means Princess Margot reverts back to being heir to the throne." Rufus started to laugh again, sounding almost maniacal. "When word spread through the Moraigthian camp that the prince is dead, Kenneth’s four most powerful lords immediately became turncoats. They refused to lead their forces out to battle again and said they wouldn’t continue laying their necks on the line, only for a girl to end up wearing the crown. This led to several other lords following their example and defecting. In less than a day, the Moraigthian army has torn itself apart at the seams. The Grand Council of Lords are now demanding Kenneth end the war and seek a formal peace treaty with Islia."

King Edward didn’t respond to Rufus directly, instead slowly tipping his head back to look up at the cloudy, sultry skies. He smiled as if he could see the gates of paradise before him, then rasped to no one in particular, "The very heart has been ripped out of our enemy. Praise be."

William felt himself drop to his knees, a strange roaring filling his ears. Trembling, he kissed the boggy, scorched ground beneath him in a silent prayer of thanksgiving. He saw several of his fellow men do the same, all stunned by the sudden, divine providence.

His forehead pressed to the ground, William mumbled to himself, "It’s over. Hell is over. Thank you."

- - -

When the news was shared, the relief and elation that swept through the Islian army was palpable. William saw more that one man break down in tears of thanksgiving.

Preparations were hurriedly made in the camp to prepare for what sounded like an imminent visit from King Kenneth. There were rarely true victors on the battlefield, William recalled his uncle saying to him many years ago. However, one should never greet their enemy as anything less than a victor. King Edward was therefore determined to begin negotiations with his pride on full display.

The king’s tent was raised, the standard of Islia fluttering from its peak. Inside, thick furs were used to cover the ground. The king even insisted his best tunic be dusted and pressed so that he could wear it the following day.

When William stepped into King Edward’s tent, he found his uncle crouched in front of a small mirror and trimming his long, ragged beard. The king looked up and gave him a tired smile. "I should avoid looking like a barbarian myself when I meet with the barbarian king tomorrow, eh boy?"

William smiled back. "Whatever do you mean, uncle? Wasn’t it only a year ago that the two of you were spending all your days together, hunting and feasting?"

"Oh, yes. I remember it clearly. And I knew, even as I embraced Kenneth as my kin back then, that he wouldn’t hesitate to betray me one day." A dangerous edge had crept into the king’s smile, turning it more into a sneer. "I don’t take it personally, though. Kenneth betrayed his own brother. Why would he ever keep his word to me?"

As the sun slowly started to sink towards the horizon, the men began lighting campfires. They sat down and tucked into their bland rations as if they were at a royal feast, talking and laughing. The army had nearly run out of food by now, but at least now they had hope they’d be riding south within the next few days. There would be countless estates and villages where they could stop and be fed, where they’d be celebrated by the common people for driving the Moraigthians out of their country.

Or would they?

The returning army would be provided with food and shelter, but William doubted the anxious populace would be in any mood to celebrate, after months of fear and scarcity created by the invasion.

Even worse, the north of the country would need abundant aid for the foreseeable future. The king would be forced to raise taxes.

And, as William mulled cynically, the Islians had simply managed not to lose. They had only just managed to hold on to their lives and land. That was not the same as an outright victory.