Royal Exile. Fiona McIntosh
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over rule without so much as a squeak. I’m sure very few know how dire the situation is in Barronel.’
Brennus grimaced. ‘Ormond might hold.’
‘Only if we’d gone to his aid days ago, majesty. He will fall and our people will then know the truth as we prepare to fight.’
The king looked broken. ‘They’ve never believed, not for a second, that Penraven could fall. Food is plentiful, our army well trained and well equipped. Lo strike me, this is a tribal ruffian leading tribal rabble!’ But as much as the king wanted to believe otherwise, he knew the situation was dire. He no longer had options. ‘Summon Gavriel and Corbel,’ he said sadly.
De Vis nodded, turned on his heel and left the king alone to his dark thoughts. Minutes after his departure, Brennus heard the telltale lusty squall of a newborn. His new son had arrived. Not long later the senior midwife eased quietly from behind the doors. She curtsied low, a whimpering bundle of soft linens in her arms. But when she looked at the king her expression was one of terror, rather than delight.
‘I heard his battlecry,’ the king said, desperately trying to alleviate the tension but failing, frowning at her fear as she tiptoed, almost cringing, toward him with her precious cargo. ‘Is something wrong with my wife?’ he added, a fresh fear coursing through him.
‘No, not at all, your highness. The queen is fatigued, of course, but she will be well.’
‘Good. Let me see this new son of mine then,’ Brennus said, trying to sound gruff. His heart melted as he looked down at the baby’s tiny features, eyelids tightly clamped. The infant yawned and he felt an instant swell of love engulf him. ‘Hardly strapping but handsome all the same,’ he said, grinning despite his bleak mood, ‘with the dark features of the Valisars.’ He couldn’t disguise the pride in his voice.
The midwife’s voice was barely above a whisper when she spoke. ‘Sire, it … it is not a boy. You have been blessed with a daughter.’
Brennus looked at the woman as though she had suddenly begun speaking gibberish.
She hurried on in her anxious whisper. ‘She is beautiful but I must warn that she is frail due to her early arrival. A girl, majesty,’ she muttered with awe. ‘How long has it been?’
‘Show me,’ Brennus demanded, his jaw grinding to keep his own fears in check. The midwife obliged and he was left with no doubt; he had sired a girl. Wrapping her in the linens again, he looked mournfully at the old, knowing midwife — old enough to have delivered him nearly five decades ago. She knew about the Valisar line and what this arrival meant. How much worse could their situation get, he wondered, his mind instantly chaotic.
‘I fear she may not survive, majesty.’
‘I am taking her to the chapel,’ he said, ignoring the woman’s concerns.
Their attention was momentarily diverted by Piven scampering up, his dark curly hair its usual messy mop and his matching dark eyes twinkling with delight at seeing his father. But Piven gave everyone a similar welcome; it was obvious he made no distinction between man or woman, king or courtier. Everyone was a friend, deserving of a beaming, vacant salutation. Brennus affectionately stroked his invalid son’s hair.
The midwife tried to protest. ‘But the queen has hardly seen her. She said —’
‘Never mind what the queen instructs.’ Brennus reached for the baby. ‘Give her to me. I would hold the first Valisar princess in centuries. She will go straight to the chapel for a blessing in case she passes on. My wife will understand. Tell her I shall be back shortly with our daughter.’
Brennus didn’t wait for the woman’s reply. Cradling his daughter as though she were a flickering flame that could be winked out with the slightest draught, he shielded her beneath his cloak and strode — almost ran — to Penraven’s royal chapel, trailed by his laughing, clapping five-year-old boy. Inside he locked the door. His breathing had become laboured and shallow, and the fear that had begun as a tingle now throbbed through his body like fire.
The priest came and was promptly banished. Soon after a knock at the door revealed De Vis with his twin sons in tow, looking wide-eyed but resolute. Now tall enough to stand shoulder to shoulder alongside their father like sentries, strikingly similar and yet somehow clearly individual, they bowed deeply to their sovereign, while Piven mimicked the action. Although neither Gavriel nor Corbel knew what was afoot for them, they had obviously been told by their father that each had a special role to perform.
‘Bolt it,’ Brennus ordered as soon as the De Vis family was inside the chapel.
A glance to one son by De Vis saw it done. ‘Are we alone?’ he asked the king as Corbel drew the heavy bolt into place.
‘Yes, we’re secure.’
De Vis saw the king fetch a gurgling bundle from behind one of the pews and then watched his boys’ brows crinkle with gentle confusion although they said nothing. He held his breath in an attempt to banish his reluctance to go through with the plan. He could hardly believe this was really happening and that the king and he had agreed to involve the boys. And yet there was no other way, no one else to trust.
‘This is my newborn child,’ Brennus said quietly, unable to hide the catch in his voice.
The legate forced a tight smile although the sentiment behind it was genuine. ‘Congratulations, majesty.’ The fact that the baby was among them told him the plan was already in motion. He felt the weight of his own fear at the responsibility that he and the king were about to hand over; it fell like a stone down his throat to settle uncomfortably, painfully, in the pit of his stomach. Could these young men — still youthful enough that their attempts to grow beards and moustaches were a source of amusement — pull off the extraordinary plan that the king and he had hatched over this last moon? From the time at which it had become obvious that the Set could not withstand the force of Loethar’s marauding army.
They had to do this. He had to trust that his sons would gather their own courage and understand the import of what was being entrusted to them.
De Vis became aware of the awkward silence clinging to the foursome, broken only by the flapping of a sparrow that had become trapped in the chapel and now flew hopelessly around the ceiling, tapping against the timber and stone, testing for a way out. Piven, nearby, flapped his arms too, his expression vacant, unfocused.
De Vis imagined Brennus felt very much like the sparrow right now — trapped but hoping against hope for a way out of the baby’s death. There was none. He rallied his courage, for he was sure Brennus’s forlorn expression meant the king’s mettle was foundering. ‘Gavriel, Corbel, King Brennus wishes to tell you something of such grave import that we cannot risk anyone outside of the four of us sharing this plan. No one … do you understand?’
Both boys stared at their father and nodded. Piven stepped up into the circle and eyed each, smiling beatifically.
‘Have you chosen who takes which responsibility?’ Brennus asked, after clearing his throat.
‘Gavriel will take Leo, sire. Corbel will …’ he hesitated, not sure whether his own voice would hold. He too cleared his throat. ‘He will —’
Brennus rescued him. ‘Hold her, Corbel. This is a new princess for Penraven and a more dangerous birth I cannot imagine. I loathe passing this terrible responsibility to you but your father believes you are up to it.’
‘Why is she dangerous, your majesty?’ Corbel asked.
‘She is the first female to be born into the Valisars for centuries, the only one who might well be strong enough to live. Those that have been born in the past have rarely survived their first hour.’ Brennus shrugged sorrowfully. ‘We cannot let her be found by the tyrant Loethar.’
De Vis sympathised with his son. He could see that the king’s opening gambit was having the right effect in chilling Corbel but he was also aware that Brennus was circling the truth.
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