THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN
Chapter 29
March 24th, 1521 – Safeira
Four months of campaigning had passed. The winter had started growing harsh right after the king's coronation. But Victoria Fell had still kept to her plan. However, Safeira was prepared thanks to Rajac's warning. King William showed his assuredness and calm before his first siege and foiled the small armada which was meant to capture his city. Within two weeks the ships pulled back and Safeira cheered.
It wasn't long after that when William Fell decided it was time to meet Victoria in the field. For if they waited out the winter, she would have claimed more parts of Angloa. The north was already hers. They needed to push her back before the first kiss of spring greeted them.
With a heavy heart—knowing it would separate him from his love—he divided the vast army into two smaller but more effective ones. King William would, together with Lord Irias and Fawkes command the main army of thirteen thousand men that would take ships up the coastline and push Victoria back from the north.
Edward Cullen—Carlisle Chaeld in the guise of his friend— together with Emmett Saxton would claim a smaller army of neigh six thousand that would sneak up on Victoria from the south and start claiming back Alban and the range.
Thus, the campaign began. Edward and Isabella said their goodbyes in February as she, together with Athar, would travel to Adelton Hall. William wanted his main advisors separated in case something happened. Glovendale would stay and watch over Safeira together with Graham. And, of course, no one knew of the scheme Lord Graham and Cardinal Thorpe were plotting. Clarence of Maesir would retire back to his palace and not worry much over the future as he had played his part.
Slowly but steady, William's forces started reclaiming the north. Together with Fawkes, Irias, Raleigh, Billy, and Jacob Black they retook Castell in a matter of days and sunk the English ships. The king did not openly showcase his strategical wit, but rather pushed his generals in the right direction without them much knowing it. As the months grew colder and colder, the king's forces etched their way into the threatening army of the queen. They lost a few battles here and there but managed to claim back the land. Those who had survived the harsh claims of their towns by Victoria were sent to Adelton for refuge. Many of the men wished to stay behind and fight for their homes, leaving their elder, women, and children behind. The Countess of Cadherra welcomed hundreds upon hundreds with open arms and the inhabitant of Hayes opened up their homes for those fleeing from the north. Soon Cadherra housed all the victims of Victoria's pillage across the northern countryside.
The goal was, of course, to reclaim Wessport. For it was the ultimate stronghold of the queen. From there she ruled what was left of her little kingdom. She did not follow her army like William did his. She left that to Percy Beauchamp and Matthew Alistair.
The intrigue displaying itself in Safeira, however, was the most pressing one. March reached its end and Lord Glovendale had been missing for neigh two weeks. The king had been alerted but Thorpe did not believe he would travel back merely to address the disappearance of such a man. The cardinal was satisfied, smug even. He knew Lord Graham was behind Lord Glovendale's absence. It was one more nuisance removed. Next came Lord Athar, who they would wash away from Adelton Hall. And slowly their tendrils would extend. His alliance with the steward of Safeira worked very much to his advantage.
Thorpe sat one cold March afternoon staring out at the thawing, muddied, and melting fields. Spring was but a whisper away, and he figured that, by the end of summer, Angloa would be ruled by King William. Thorpe would stand by his side, the ultimate confidant and advisor to the king. And he would have enough power to claim a presence in the Vatican. His eyes hungered as he realized he was coming closer and closer to his political goals.
Graham had come to sit with him, pointing to the wine. "That is a fine vintage you have there, Your Eminence," he said as he had poured a cup and tried it. "What are you celebrating?"
Thorpe smirked as he downed the cup. "The joys of life," he chuckled.
"Has His Eminence yet seen the throne room in closer detail?" the steward asked with a smile. Thorpe shook his head, but the idea of being in that room, alone, as if it was already his, greatly pleased him.
"I have been meaning to visit it," Thorpe mused as he got up. Lord Graham followed him as they ventured back into Aldea, into the royal palace, and moved their way past servants and guards until they reached the throne room. Graham would seat a small chair next to the throne whenever the king was away and receive the citizens of Safeira as the steward. He would listen to their qualms, solve disputes and take care that the city remained calm.
"Have you ever seen its equal?" Graham asked.
Thorpe smirked. "This room, my friend—" Thorpe said smugly. "—is but a façade for the people; is but a stage where the puppet-master pulls the strings." Thorpe turned, his red robes invasive in the elegant room, his small eyes squinting in joy. "Which we will."
He had grown comfortable speaking his mind with Graham, as Graham had with him. They would often speak of the future of Angloa where both would be powerful men, where both would enjoy the control they would soon have over King William. Alas, no one stopped to think that William might not let himself be manipulated.
"Your Eminence might wish to feel the true authority of this room then," Graham blinked as he pointed at the throne. "Sitting up there gives one a tremendous rush of power," he whispered. "I must confess that now that the king is gone, and when I find myself alone in this room, I sometimes sit on that throne, just to know what it feels like."
Thorpe was already a bit affected by the alcohol. However, the doors were closed, and no one would dare disturb the steward and the cardinal. Thus, without any worry, he walked up the steps and seated the throne. Graham arched an eyebrow and smiled.
Thorpe got comfortable looking down at Graham, feeling the rush of power, that addictive sensation he always urged to have. It was more intoxicating than the wine working its way into his belly.
"Tell me," he asked. "How did you manage?"
"Manage what?" Graham asked back.
"Don't be coy, my lord."
A smirk spread on the features of the steward. "You will have to be specific, Your Eminence, there are many things I've done which require some reminding. You see, I try to ignore them most of the time."
In any other circumstance, Thorpe would have been careful. Seating the throne so carelessly, openly speaking of their plot to murder Glovendale—it was all rather dangerous. But as the king distanced himself more and more from Safeira, Thorpe had grown brave to do as he wished. And he said truthfully what he wanted from Graham, not masking the words nor twisting them.
"How did you kill him?"
"Kill who? There are many who have perished by my hand, Your Eminence," Graham said.
Thorpe sighed. "How did you manage to kill Glovendale?"
Graham smiled. "Well, I would never have managed without your brilliant scheming, Your Eminence."
"Do not flatter me boy, when old age starts getting to you, and experience stacks up, you know what to do."
He waited for Graham to say in what diabolic way Glovendale had perished. But as time floated by, Graham straightened up and remained silent. His smile slowly waned away. It was if a mask had melted to show Graham's true feelings.
"You know, I hear you were the one who instigated Victoria to poison Lady Swan," he said in a low voice.
Thorpe grew confused. "What on earth are you talking about?"
Suddenly the throne room grew threatening to him; the sunbeams washing away to the enigmatic tension that wrapped its tendrils around the columns. "I know for a fact that you did, Your Eminence. For my servants overheard you telling her," Graham said, walking closer to the throne. "Do you deny it?"
Thorpe grew confused, standing up. Why this sudden shift in mood, why this sudden strange behavior? "What does it matter if I did?" he asked.
"And did you pressure her to have Jasper Fell executed as well?" Graham asked.
Now Thorpe started realizing what Graham was doing and got angry. "My lord, you are committing a grave mistake if you think you can threaten me." He stood up from the throne and hastened down to come face to face with the lord, a smirk lining his features. "It seems to upset you if I do not mistake myself. Might I presume you knew one or both of them?"
Graham growled slightly as he gritted his teeth. "Say what you will about Jasper, but he was a kind man who did his best with what he had."
Thorpe smirked, the smug expression enough to make Graham want to punch him. "Indeed, I told Victoria she had to execute Jasper, or she'd be removed instantly from her throne. I planted the seed that Isabella Swan should be killed. I did not plan for Rosalie to die, nor this mess to come of it." Thorpe seemed rather satisfied with himself.
Graham looked at him with utter disgust, his nose wrinkled, his eyes growing darker by the moment. And, indeed, the cardinal was so utterly assured of his influence and power even now that he did not fear the rift he had created between himself and Graham. He would merely make the steward disappear after the grave mistake he had just committed. Graham should not have challenged him thus.
Alas, steps echoed from one side of the vast room.
Moving their way.
"It would seem, Your Eminence, that the king needs to be informed," another voice suddenly spoke out from further down in the vast room.
Thorpe visibly paled and his smile quickly dropped as he turned around. He saw the youthful vigor present in the green eyes despite his age. The graying goatee was neatly combed in place, as was the graying hair. Theodor Glovendale walked up to both men with somber steps. Thorpe gritted his teeth and turned from Graham to Glovendale.
"No, Thorpe, I am no ghost. I am very much alive," Glovendale said as he stopped right before the cardinal. "Do you really believe it would be that easy to remove me: an ambassador working in Rome for the past twenty years?"
Thorpe backed away. He looked at Graham and started realizing it. "You were never going to…to—" but he stopped himself before saying the damning words. Thorpe had spoken out his plans, and Glovendale had heard all his sins. He had just given evidence of his conspiracy.
"It seems you are due for confession, Cardinal," Glovendale smirked. "Apparently, you have played a larger part in this conflict than I previously believed. But, of course, I am not surprised. I do wonder how His Majesty will react."
Thorpe gathered his wits. "This conversation will not leave this room. I will make sure you are both buried before the day is over—"
If Thorpe had been surprised before, he was nearly knocked to his feet at what came next.
The sound of rustling armor echoed as the royal guard pushed into the room, surrounding the three men and aimed their drawn swords at Thorpe. "I am afraid your little scheming has come to an end, Thorpe," Glovendale continued. He had long savored this moment. Since before going into hiding at Aldea. Glovendale had wanted this ever since he had seen what type of man Thorpe was back in Rome.
Slowly but surely the cardinal realized everything was meticulously planned. Everything was in place. This was not a simple coincidence. The guards had been waiting, this was a set-up from the start. His small black eyes drifted to Graham with such hatred that he thought he would burst.
Graham turned to him. "I knew what you were the moment I saw you, Thorpe. And no man in his right mind would ever ally himself with you. You would stab me in the back as soon as I turned around." Graham closed in and arched an eyebrow. "I told you from the moment we first spoke after Victoria's departure: I look out for my well-being. And that means having you in chains."
Thorpe growled in anger at having been bested by the younger, more pompous man. He had spent decades playing the game, and he had just been bested by a lowly ambassador and a steward.
"The king will not lend his ear to you once I get to speak with him!" Thorpe raged, thinking he might still be able to twist William Fell against them.
Again, a set of footsteps echoed in the throne room of Aldea. These were heavier, containing more poise to them, the feeling of doom emanating from their clash upon the marble floor.
"Not likely, Thorpe," came a strong, velvety voice and it was enough to make Thorpe lose the rest of the color in his face.
He saw the very king himself come forward in a steadfast pace, his step certain, his gaze fixed on the cardinal. He walked past the soldiers and stepped up to him.
Edward had taken a short break in his campaign against Victoria to make sure Thorpe was cast into the dungeons himself. The king stared at the cardinal with his harsh eyes and arched an eyebrow. A look of contained amusement touched the handsome features of William Fell.
"Your Majesty, I can explain—" the cardinal squeaked.
One look from the monarch was all it took to silence the cardinal momentarily. Thorpe worked out every possible resource he might use to get out from his predicament. He went over ways to get the king alone, to twist him to his favor. He went over ways he might escape and travel back to Victoria or Rome. But he saw himself surrounded, his spies and servants probably having been taken in as well.
And as Cardinal Thorpe, Ordained Bishop of Wessport, realized he might lose his life, he fell to his knees defeated, truly afraid for his life. For when it came to standing before justice himself, he held the courage of a small boy.
"S-sire!" he exclaimed on his knees. "These men are poisoning you against me, twisting your mind away from the truth. They are fickle and should not be listened to. Just like Edward Cullen does not want the best for you, just like Lord Athar schemes against you! If you would just speak with me privately, I could tell you what this is all about—"
William Fell remained stoic, yet some disgust managed to etch its way onto his face. The king stepped in closer, motioning for the others to give them space. He bent down so that he could whisper in Thorpe's ear, smirking satisfied, with a glint of danger to his eyes. "I hope you like kneeling, Thorpe, for it'll be something you will have to get used to from now on," the cardinal heard the familiar growl whisper into his ear.
Thorpe instantly recognized the insult he had delivered unto General Cullen so many months ago. He recognized the voice, the dangerous sparkle in those eyes. And then—thinking he must have been blind not to see it before—he recognized those forest green orbs.
Thorpe started shaking as his eyes almost popped out of his head when he realized Edward Cullen and William Fell were somehow the same person. And the moment Edward had obtained enough power in Safeira, he must have made sure Graham was under his control, working in his favor together with Glovendale. The general and the king had beaten him at his own game. Thorpe suddenly realized he could never have twisted the king—not when the same was the goddamned Lion of the North, commander of all those armies, Filed Marshal—someone who belonged on the battlefield and who had seen his true colors in Rome. Thorpe realized he had just lost then and there, and he started sobbing like a small child, begging for mercy.
"Cardinal Johannes Finneas Thorpe, I hereby proclaim you a traitor to the crown, strip you of your possessions and sentence you to be cast into the dungeons until further action can be taken against you, until a court of law can determine the extent of your sentence," the king spoke as his voice echoed within the room. William Fell regarded the cardinal who wobbled on his knees. "I might have been more lenient if you hadn't sat on my throne," the king smirked, so utterly satisfied with the whole situation, reveling in the horrible expression of defeat and fear on Thorpe's features. The king looked at him in a disgusted manner. "Throw him in a cell," he spat.
The rest wondered what he had whispered in Thorpe's ear to provoke such a reaction. They dared not ask. The king turned to Graham. "I am grateful you played your part so well, my lord Graham."
The other smiled and bowed. "As am I that you came here yourself to make sure he was cast into the dungeons."
Glovendale chuckled. "I have never been so satisfied at seeing a man on his knees before. I will never forget this day for the rest of my life. Your Majesty," he turned to the king. "You have removed the leech from your inner circle. Now it is time to clean up the rest of the country. You may leave here with the knowledge that Safeira is now safe from his clutches once and for all.
March 29th – Wessport
"Thorpe has been removed, cast into the dungeons," one of her barons said, averting her dangerous gaze. The queen mindlessly drummed her nails along the armrest of her chair. Alistair and Beauchamp were still away, fighting off the pretender. But her blood boiled at what he had done to Thorpe—a man who might have come into use if she could have whisked him to her own court.
Victoria grew more and more frustrated with each passing day, realizing she would lose if nothing was done quickly. And, indeed, only one thing could be done once and for all. There was still one final play, one final ace up her sleeve that could weaken William's armies. And there was one person in particular that irked her to such an extent that she wanted nothing more than to see them perish.
"Call on Alistair, have him journey down to Adelton Hall."
"My queen?" the baron, Lord Burey, asked as he paled. "Did he not try to claim the castle once?"
Victoria's lips thinned. "King William is reported to still remain outside of Safeira, but he did not bring his whole army from the northern front. Even if the news reaches him, there is little he can do. Edward Cullen is occupied with our armies on the eastern front. He cannot leave his men to save her again."
"We gain little claiming Adelton Hall, Your Majesty. If you send Alistair with his army, we may lose the hold we have on the northwest. And William Fell's forces will approach Wessport faster. We might want to think of regrouping the three branches into one strong and united army—"
"Burey, you have never even seen battle, that is why you cower here," Victoria purred. "Now be a good man and send my message."
"If I may, Your Majesty…there are other ways of eliminating Lady Swan," the baron said. It was no secret of the queen's hatred for the young woman who so openly defied her.
Victoria arched an eyebrow. "I will not try to poison her again, Burey. She dies by the sword, with blood soiling that pretty little face of hers. And it is a message to any other aristocrat out there who has spoken ill of me; as she has. Isabella Swan will pay, and it will throw Edward Cullen off. The rest may not want to admit it, but he is the backbone in William's army. The men follow the Lion of the North, not that pretender. And once he leaves because he lost his love, I will reclaim my rightful place as sole ruler here." She rose to stand, so spurred by her own words, her own growing madness. "And mark my words Burey," the mad queen said as she walked toward the door, heading for her quarters. "That pretender will suffer and die a painful death." The baron grew pale at her words, shook the more she spoke.
She turned in the opened door, arching a delicate eyebrow. "Well?"
"I-I will send the message to Alistair at once, Your Majesty," he stuttered and noticed the satisfied smirk lacing her features as she closed the door shut.
April 3rd – Flatlands, Eastern Sorossa by the sea.
It was only for a moment he had managed to slip into the guise. William Fell had come with his small company of three thousand men to check on Edward Cullen. And it was an apt time for the king to get a breather. He had donned the mask as soon as he'd been able to get into Carlisle's tent. The moment his face disappeared into it, he had stepped out and walked amongst his fellow soldiers. He'd sat down with some, broken bread with them and recalled previous battles. In a sense, it was something he missed. And it was something he couldn't do anymore as king. Indeed, for the soldiers could not possibly have their king next to them, they were not dignified enough, they thought. And William Fell did not understand battle as they did.
But Cullen did.
It was great just being a normal soldier with Jacob and Carlisle sitting next to him, laughing and retelling stories of old, not having the weight of monarchy resting on his shoulders.
It was afternoon when a messenger rushed to his tent. Saxton himself delivered the letter and Edward read it, his eyes widening further as he read the lines.
"What does it say?" asked the proud Sorossan lord.
He saw the masked general stumble, not quite certain of what to do. "I…I…" Edward found no words and panicked as he looked up from the parchment to his friends. He opened and closed his mouth several times. Emmett had never seen him lose his footing in such a way before. It had to be serious.
"Should we inform His Majesty?" asked Emmett.
Edward paid him little heed. The masked man had turned his back to them and leaned against the table. They saw his tensed state as a million thoughts rushed through his head. But they could not yet understand the utter panic he was experiencing. He looked up and started pacing, briefly casting a glance Emmett, Carlisle, and Jacob's way. After a while, he cast the letter aside and headed straight for the opening of the tent, not paying them any attention. He needed to breathe in the fresh April air, lest he went crazy.
Emmett looked at the other two and then back at the masked general. "What is this about?" he asked Jacob and Carlisle. The latter picked up the small piece of paper and read it, also several times as his eyes widened.
"This letter was smuggled out by Amalia Rajac…Victoria is sending Alistair to retake Adelton. And I believe this time he aims to take out Isabella as well."
The others went quiet, now understanding the shock those words had brought their friend. But Jacob and Carlisle realized how much it had to be breaking Edward apart realizing the difficulty in him going there.
"We…need to ask the king to lend us the men he brought from the north," Saxton mumbled, scratching his head. "I could take charge of the army…Edward should go." It was expected of the general, that he rushed to his lover's side.
"Edward cannot go," Carlisle mumbled, still loud enough for Emmett to hear. The latter furrowed his brow.
"Of course he can," he answered heftily. "He cannot just leave her for the enemy to claim Adelton."
"No, of course not." How could Emmett understand? Maybe it was an apt time to reveal the secret. But they couldn't do so without asking Edward first. He cast a glance at Jacob and furrowed his brow.
"I'll talk to him," Jacob sighed after a while. He had always been better at dealing with the masked man in matters concerning Isabella. "You should start gathering the men who came with His Majesty—"
"Shouldn't we at least communicate this to His Majesty?" Saxton intercepted.
Carlisle and Jacob shifted a little. "Speak with him once you are done talking to Edward," Carlisle told his friend. "Will you help me gather the bannermen, Emmett?" Carlisle asked the man he'd been fighting side by side with for the past few months. He took great care in not showing too much familiarity. He also made sure his voice was a few octaves higher, and that his mannerisms didn't resemble those he'd had when masked.
"Of course," Emmett said. The three of them left the tent and caught a glimpse of the masked man, standing atop a small hill looking southwest, where Adelton Hall was beyond the forest. It wasn't far away. Jacob made his way up to Edward, to try to convince him that he should leave Isabella's rescue to him and Carlisle.
Jacob noted the tense stance, the clenched fists and locked gaze as he walked up to him. There was a determinedness in those green orbs he was very familiar with.
"I cannot abandon her, Jacob," the masked man whispered.
"I know," Jacob answered. "I know, Edward." His friend turned to face him and never before had he seen a man as torn as him.
Carlisle and Saxton were further down the camp, getting the soldiers in formation when another messenger reached them from the west. Neither knew where it came from, if from Raven's Grove or if from Wessport. The panicked look in his eyes did not bode well.
"My lords!" he exclaimed as he got to them, upon closer look, Saxton saw that it was one of his scouts positioned in Raven's Grove.
"What news, Timmy!" Emmett urged.
"An army heading to Raven's Grove further west. I think it means to go for Adelton Hall!" he said in a panicked voice.
Carlisle and Saxton widened their eyes. How was Alistair this quick? They had to act fast, or he would reach the castle before they had a chance to establish themselves there to defend it.
April 4th – Cadherra
"Gather what is left of their supplies from Hayes. Have the upper castle servants help with the villagers as they come. And Roderick," she said without turning. The Countess of Cadherra stormed down the hall of her castle in a determined and resolute pace, on her way to the armory. News of an approaching force heading their way had reached them just an hour before.
"Yes, my lady," the man answered.
"I will need an account of every able-bodied man in the castle. Speak with Lord Quinn about where they could best serve. If anyone, he is the most apt for it," she continued. When Roderick kept trailing her and her group, the woman stopped dead in her tracks with an irritated look on her features. "That means now, Roderick!" she said forcefully, enough to make him dart the other way.
Isabella Swan continued to the armory in her quick pace. But never once did she hasten into a run. She would not be seen panicked by the inhabitants of her castle. Not now. If they saw her fear or falter, they would lose hope.
And there was no hope left to lose.
"Where did Lord Athar go to?" she asked as she stopped in front of the armory.
"To the same place you thought to go, Lady Swan," a pleasant voice echoed. Isabella saw the aged man standing, accompanied by Alice, waiting outside the armory. "I thought it best to await your arrival. It is your castle, after all."
Isabella arched an eyebrow Alice's way until she redirected her gaze to meet Athar. "Half the castle was looking for you when we got the news." Mrs. Hammond, now promoted to keeper of the keys, unlocked the armory. They had only a small force, not merely enough to face the army moving their way. They were lucky that Emmett Saxton had taken care in posting a few scouts in the middle and edge of the forest. The men had ridden the moment they caught sight of the soldiers and Victoria's banner flapping in the wind.
"I am here now, Isabella," he smiled. Keeping calm himself and thus calming Isabella down, despite perhaps not knowing it.
They opened the door and saw, to their dismay, that there were not nearly enough swords, arrows, muskets, fodder or ammunition to last them even a week besieged.
Isabella stared at the too-empty room with her lips pressed together. "Let us hope they bring with them some useful gear from Coldwick," the countess murmured under her breath. She turned to her friend and now confidant. "Alice, go to the stables, have them send another rider to Coldwick immediately and tell them to bring more weapons—to bring as much as they are able."
"My lady, should we write—"
"Now, Alice!" Isabella exclaimed. "Every second we spend speaking, discussing, writing, is a second wasted. Make haste, please," she ordered. For indeed it was an order. Affirmative, decisive.
Alice ran as fast as her legs could carry her and Athar eyed Isabella Swan. "My lady, let us rejoin in the old throne room. Have the others come and regroup. We all need come together," he said.
Isabella looked at him, turned to look at her servants. "Mrs. Hammond," she stepped up to the old housekeeper, now promoted to keeper of the entirety of Adelton Hall ever since the Chamberlain had left. "I need you to take care of the refugees from Hayes and the northerners living there; just like last time. I know I can count on you."
Mrs. Hammond was white as a sheet but did not wish to disappoint her lady. "Indeed, my lady. You can count on me," she stuttered.
It wasn't long until they found themselves in the vastness that was the throne room. In a circle, they all stood. Isabella's back faced the throne.
"Most of you are already aware what lurks on the edge of Raven's Grove. What awaits in our near future. It is a future Adelton has seen before." Lord Athar had gathered Lord Quinn, Alan Moore and a few of the southern lords who had not gone out campaigning with William Fell or Edward Cullen. Two of them were Tyris and Wilson from Sorise.
"The only reason Victoria Fell is diverting her army here is because she has a bone to pick with you, Lady Swan," Lord Wilson spat.
Isabella was glad neither her mother nor Edward were there to hear the malice in his tone. She ignored his remark and kept speaking to the rest. "We have sent messages to Coldwick, where, in case anything like this happened, some of their guards and soldiers would come to defend us. The villagers from Hayes, the refugees from the north, and any other farms in the close vicinity will enter the castle for refuge. Every able-bodied man will assist in keeping us safe, as it was during the last siege." She looked out over the somber faces.
"Her ladyship and I will remain alerted to any further news, my lords," Athar filled in. It was easier to have him support her on the sideline. For there were not all there present who would idly obey the words of a young woman, however noble she may be.
"Lord Athar," Lord Tyris said as he turned to the older man. "You should take charge here. Lady Swan is not equipped to handle this situation—"
Before Athar could defend her, Isabella spoke up. "My lords, could I offer you words of encouragement, I would. If we work together, this will be a lot easier. But the truth of the matter is that thousands of men once more march upon Adelton Hall and will reach here before the end of the day. And this time we cannot expect any help from any General Cullen or His Majesty," she uttered as truthfully as she could. The pause that followed was not only tense, but it was also intertwined with fear. She could smell it on some of them. "We stand alone, my lords, but I will not surrender this castle. Those men who come here—on the orders of a madwoman who had her own sister killed—will not find us cowering." Her jaw set, the young woman stared at them determined. "You choose. Either you cast aside your pride; you let me, a woman, dictate what I know is best for the defense of the people within this castle, or you leave my grounds," she added rather forcefully.
Tyris had started blushing at her forward remark.
"Lord Quinn, I leave the charge of offense to you." She was about to leave, followed by an amused Athar when she turned in the doorway and faced Quinn. "Do not open the gates this time, if you please, my lord."
The sound of her heels echoed in the hectic hallways as the whole castle scurried to prepare for the impending doom. "You didn't have to be so hard on them," Athar said as he tailed after her.
"I refuse to let anyone tell me what to do or how to feel. This isn't about their pride anymore and you know that."
"You never know when they could turn on you, Isabella. That is all I am saying," he added.
Isabella stopped once more and sighed in defeat, turning around to face the much older man. "I know you have lived at court longer than I—have played the game of intrigue much longer than I." She nodded fervently as she spoke to show that she agreed with him. "You do hold much more experience than I do, my friend. And I will never suppose that I am wiser than you could ever be."
Athar rose an eyebrow. "I sense a however finding its way into this delightful conversation," his rich voice chuckled in a deadpan.
Isabella still remained stern as she stepped in closer. He saw the seriousness in her eyes, the sharp twinge of adrenaline and fire. "This isn't the tranquilities of Wessport anymore, Athar. This is war. There is another man in my life from whom I have learned a great deal when it comes to these situations," she stated. "In battles like these, it is all very simple and straightforward. In that field, there are two sides trying to end each other. It doesn't matter what spurs them. What matters is the strategy, the planning, the advantages each side takes. We will be prepared when they come. And we will show them that we are prepared. Nothing puts the other side off like seeing their enemy facing them head-on."
"And Edward simply told you all this? I never knew him to be such an avid conversationalist when it came to battle and strategy. Especially not with…erhm…women."
She could not help but smirk despite the gravity of their situation. "Well, we women are good observers and listeners, my lord."
By the time daylight left them, Adelton Hall waited while holding its breath. They all believed there would be no help. They did not expect it. Many were taken back to the last time Victoria had sent her army to take them down.
This time it was different.
As the forces neared the castle with the walls secured by archers and men from Coldwick, Isabella knew that there would be no force in Adelton that could stop those men before they entered her castle. Victoria had given her a promise: she would take her home. But Isabella would die before she let her set one foot in Adelton Hall. The queen had already soiled Wessport with her presence, she would not let her touch the beauty of Cadherra as well.
The hours passed, and thousands of men could be heard in the forest, the first wave already approaching the castle. This time there was more structure and two flanks headed for her with siege towers. Before long, cannons sparked and shook the structure as the fodder collided with the stone. Adelton was not built for cannons, nor built for the more modern equipment they had brought with them. Grimly she realized they would probably not last even a day.
But she did not let the fear show. The Countess of Cadherra stood next to Lord Quinn and Lord Athar on the top wall with the archers. The soldiers looked to her, to see her reaction. Her determined expression, her stern face and unforgiving bearing made them think they might get away unscathed—that they might manage this. In the way she bore herself, so unforgiving and determined before the vast army, some felt as though a part of Edward Cullen stood on that wall with them, present in Isabella Swan.
But Lord Athar and Quinn knew the reality. As did Isabella. The armored soldiers waiting for the clear to storm their walls had all hearts aflutter, hers included.
Isabella would not keep to the Palas this time, hiding with the wounded. Edward was gone fighting, and she was now to represent the owner of the castle. She had to raise morale.
"Lord Quinn, I trust you to take charge," she said grimly as they watched the wave approach, watching the shouting men run for their walls once the cannons had seized.
"This time I will not let Adelton be taken," he growled as he stared at them, growing fierce as well.
They prepared their archers. "Archers!" Quinn shouted in a commanding voice. "Knock," he uttered with as much force he could muster. The arrows would only slow them down momentarily. The archers did as he bade. "Draw." Some had older bows dating at least a half century back. Others held crossbows that could reach further. Those with pistols or muskets prepared their weapons as well. Quinn held his breath, waiting for the perfect moment. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he would find himself again at that same castle; but fighting for the other side.
"Release!" he screamed atop his lungs.
The shower flew elegantly in an arch through the sky, the firearms exploded and released their smoke. They never saw how many they had hit before Quinn ordered them once more to reload.
Isabella stared as men fell like flies, stared as a shower of bullets came their way, killing her own soldiers. She stood rooted in her place, finally noticing one individual in the enemy army.
"Damn him!" she hissed under her breath.
Lord Athar followed her gaze and narrowed his eyes as he caught sight of the much-hated lord. "Alistair," he spat as well.
"That man never gives up," she murmured to herself.
But she realized that this time he might actually succeed in his endeavor. Alistair could very well manage in taking Adelton Hall for himself—as he had always wanted.
Some of his soldiers had already managed to climb their walls and a fight atop the structure now emerged. "My lady we should get you to a more secure location," Athar whispered in her ear.
She turned to him, her eyebrows furrowed together. "Where to, Athar? Wherever I go here, Alistair or his soldiers will find me, and you know what they will do with me. Victoria made that explicitly clear when she was here. I'd rather remain next to you all here than cower in my rooms," she told him. "If you wish to leave, I will not fault you for it, my old friend."
His lips thinned. Maybe her dying with them by the sword was better than what would otherwise happen. Her breath hitched in her throat as she realized she would probably lose her life. She reached for her peach-colored skirts and took out Zoráida's knife, the Damascus blade catching the glint of the flickering torches amidst the screams and clashing of steel.
She knew they would probably not last the night.
Carlisle rode with his thousand men as quickly as he could. Even in the distance, they could hear the sound of the battle raging on. It was just like last time when Edward and he had arrived with their army. Alas, it was so different now. For, indeed, they were greatly outnumbered more than two to one.
They needed to plan this well.
He had rushed out of camp, sparing little time for thought and more for action. There had been no time to think things over. He suspected Edward and Jacob would come down from within Raven's Grove and attack the thick of Alistair's forces with their own small army of a thousand men. Carlisle would ride from the south and intercept them at the mouth of the forest. But he realized he was late. A thousand men were already upon Adelton once they came closer.
He regrouped the platoon, quickly chatted with his officers and developed a plan. It would be a daring one, but if he timed it well with Edward—trusting that the seasoned general could handle the bulk of Alistair's men—they might come out victorious.
Carlisle would attack the mouth of the forest as he had planned, but as soon as there was a sign of Edward arriving, he'd move his men to defend the castle—wipe out the enemy there and then double back to defeat the enemy from the high ground, with Adelton Hall guarding their backs.
And so it went. The darkness of night managed to block out the ghastly sight of thousands of men killing each other. Isabella and the inhabitants of Adelton Hall heard it.
They had not even paused to breathe the moment the foreign army had come from the southwest, most likely having come out from another area further down the forest.
They were still being mauled atop the walls.
Finally, sounds of a battle could be heard from within Raven's Grove and it was Carlisle's signal. Edward had come with Jacob, he could not move to the castle. Carlisle Chaeld came thus up with his thousand men from behind, like a fierce wave. They managed to take out the siege towers with fire, lessening the pressure Alistair's forces put on Adelton.
And their small victories on the field made the soldiers and spectators fighting for their lives atop the walls shout out in pure joy. Now there was hope. The soldiers atop the wall fought harder and fiercer than ever before as they realized they might make it out alive. One minute felt like a lifetime as it ticked by. An hour was infinite. The whole night seemed like it would never end.
As the first beams of the sun spilled over the horizon, coupled with the clouds gathering in the sky, they started realizing they might win the battle.
Carlisle sensed the chill hitting the air, the cold having settled amidst the grime, sweat, and blood of their battle. If he stopped, he would shiver, the stank sweat and the steel of his armor coupled with his soaked clothes did nothing to warm him.
But as he noticed that Alistair's men had moved into the woods, he figured he would finish the last of them off and maybe even take down the blackguard himself. Carlisle pushed through the cold and the pain sustained from wounds he'd gotten during the night. He ignored the red fields of Adelton and Hayes and urged what was left of his platoon to move into Raven's Grove.
Of six thousand men—together with strategic brilliance, tact and luck—they had more than halved the enemy's army. But their price had been high, maybe even a higher one than Alistair had paid. For when Alistair's own men decided to desert their ranks and run away—Carlisle' and Edward's men remained by their sides, loyal until they died by the cold steel cutting into them. There was barely anyone left who'd come down to Adelton to fight, but even so, they were victorious.
Carlisle finally saw the cowering lord running away from some of Edward's men, escaping the clearing they found themselves in. Carlisle gripped his sword tighter as he licked his lips. He'd finally get the bastard. Oh, Edward would be most pleased when he presented the day's capture. He ran after the cowering Alistair, trying to flee from the scene for the second time in his life.
Carlisle caught up to him and slashed the back of his calves, successfully cutting him down. The morning cold hurt his lungs from the effort, but he didn't care. A few of his men came after him, ready to defend him at any cost. But they all knew the battle was over.
"It seems, Alistair, that you are not destined to claim Adelton Hall. Not now, not ever," he gloated, spitting out some blood to the ground, right by the wounded lord. It mingles with the rest of the blood which had been spilled in that clearing. Alistair growled at him but didn't move.
"Doesn't matter," he smirked.
Carlisle furrowed his brow. He had captured the lord, yet the other seemed smug, in a way. Losing a battle like he just had shouldn't make anyone so smug.
And a feeling settled in his stomach that Alistair's soldiers had somehow managed to enter Adelton despite their best efforts. That feeling increased tenfold when several of Carlisle's soldiers came running from the castle, urging him to come at once.
"My lord," one said, taking the lead before the other five who had urged their horses there.
They stared at Carlisle, but they saw in his eyes that he knew something was very wrong. He grew nauseous, felt sick to his stomach and the momentary feeling of victory washed away, mingling together with the stale sweat, chill, and taste of blood in his mouth. A ringing worked its way into his ears and all sound grew thick in the morning mist as the man before him spoke. Carlisle saw the lips move, but he couldn't for the life of him hear what he had said.
He could only grow paler and paler. "Get me a horse," he demanded in a croaking voice. He turned around to Alistair. Carlisle didn't really know why he hated him so much then, but he had the sudden urge to behead the smug man. He walked up to Alistair and whooshed the sword, the action ripping part of Alistair's flesh and causing a violent scream to erupt from the lord. He had just slashed his face. "Put him in chains," he growled before heading for the waiting mare which someone had procured.
Carlisle didn't even feel the horse gallop, he didn't care that at least a dozen men were now following him. He only cared about those lips, how they had moved to form bizarre words. He started shivering and sweating at the same time as they came up to Adelton, saw the blood once more painting the valley red.
He ran into the castle and remarked that the doors were opened. Strange. He rushed in together with the rest of the group, strangely knowing where he was supposed to go, the unsettling feeling growing. He suddenly remembered Saxton's words to him, Edward and Jacob in the tent. That sentiment of dread consumed him the closer and closer he got. And he started realizing what that soldier had told him and he had to stop.
Carlisle was consumed by nausea and threw up in the winding stone staircase, dry-heaving as he refused to fall to his knees. He gritted his teeth and ignored the stares from his men as he kept climbing to that one room.
He didn't hear anything the closer he got to the familiar hallway. Carlisle' mouth started trembling once he saw Lords Athar and Quinn posted just outside the door. Renée Swan, Alice and Mrs. Hammond were there as well. Alan Moore stood in one corner, hugging himself, his face shadowed. But he could hear the soft cries emanating from the one-legged man.
And then he heard it, the sobs coming from Isabella's room, heart-wrenching cries escaping the door and he didn't even know if he wanted to turn the handle.
Athar stood completely still, looking like Carlisle felt, something in his eyes extinguishing together with the cries; as if he was losing something important.
Carlisle' hand fell on the doorknob and his face twisted in pain as he pushed the door open.
Before him was revealed the most horrid scene he had ever seen in his entire life. And it was something that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He registered some people in the corner—was it maybe Jacob? And someone more? Alas, those were not the ones who caught his attention.
The defeating image presented itself like a grotesque Renaissance painting. He saw Isabella Swan on her bed, supporting Edward Cullen's head and upper body against her chest. The scene was bizarre, like a pietà, as she cradled her lover in her arms. She was crying into him, shivering in a soft peach-colored dress entirely ruined by rivers of blood that spilled out of him.
And he realized Edward lay dying in her arms.
She broke free for a moment from her entranced state and her piercing chocolate eyes found his, shivering, utterly broken and it took her a moment to find air from the violent sobs.
"Carlisle," she managed in a broken voice while he fell to his knees.
A/N: Don't hate me for the end of this chapter! I will try to update again on Wednesday/Thursday!
Cheers,
Isabelle
