Earning the Love of a Princess-Chapter 157: A Turning Tide

14 July, 1360. Eberelle County, Northern Islia

The roar of the battlefield slowly, slowly started to die down as those men who hadn’t fallen or fled, gradually lowered their weapons. Eventually, an eerie quiet descended on the vast, muddy plain.

His ears ringing painfully, William yanked off his helmet and one of his gauntlets. With his ungloved hand, he desperately swiped at his eyes. His vision was blurred ever since the blood that had spurted from the neck of a Moraigthian he’d slain, had sprayed across his helmet and even into the grille that covered his eyes.

A loud, feral sounding roar erupted a short distance away. William turned to find Prince James, helmet in hand, surveying the landscape covered in fallen men, to gauge the new position of the Islian army. In the distance, they could both see the retreating Moraigthian forces moving back into the relative safety of the Arandar Valley.

James roared again, a guttural sound of victory as a smile appeared on his face. William was somewhat surprised to hear and see the naked aggression from his cousin, who was usually a gentle soul.

Then again, like the rest of the Devon men, James deeply resented having been dragged into this war.

William scanned the gruesome landscape before him again, making a quick mental tally of the losses faced by both sides. It had been an ugly, vicious, bloody victory.

An Islian victory, nonetheless. After months of plotting, skirmishes and false starts, King Edward’s forces had finally managed to conquer a significant portion of land. They also succeeded in pushing the Moraigthian forces back enough so that they’d no longer had the advantage of always being able to attack from higher ground.

It would hopefully be a turning point in the war. William could only hope so as he looked over at James and grinned back. He walked over to his cousin, stepping around the corpses strewn between them.

"You took no blows?" William asked James, glancing at his armour which was dark with drying blood.

"None. You?" James replied, looking towards the Arandar Valley, eyes narrowed.

"None. I just want to wash my goddamn face so I don’t have to smell the stench of dog’s blood constantly." William grimaced.

James started to laugh, before both men were startled by a low, pitiful groan. Looking down, they saw a pair of fallen soldiers, badly wounded but both still alive. Through the mud and blood, the crest of their armour could still be seen - the eagle soaring over the reeds. Moraigthians.

Without hesitation, James used the tip of his sword to locate the joint between two plates of armour on the first man’s chest. As soon as he found the spot, he drove the sword down in a lethal blow. "That’s for making me leave my wife’s side when she’d barely given birth." James grunted as he killed the man.

Stomping over to the second fallen soldier, who was doing his best to squirm away along the ground, James planted his boot hard on the man’s back, then pulled his head back and sliced his throat. "And that’s for only allowing me a single day to enjoy my newborn daughter."

William didn’t even flinch as the blood gushed onto the ground, mingling with the blood of countless others. The rules of chivalry no longer applied. There would be no mercy shown to King Kenneth’s forces, because those devils had shown none when dealing with the Islian peasantry.

William wondered if anything would ever make him flinch again or if the depravity of the last few months had left him unable to feel much.

He was glad at least that he’d never written to Camilla about any of this. In his mind, she existed in a completely different world, untouched by all the wickedness and carnage around him. He intended to keep it that way.

- - -

After every battle came the grim task of counting and identifying what was possible of the dead, as well as dragging the wounded to safety and trying to deal with their injuries. The screams of the wounded echoed through the Islian battle camp. William moved through the infirmary tent to check who he recognised, as was always his habit.

A short distance away, he saw the slim shoulders and dark hair of a young woman, standing next to a soldier lying on a raised cot.

For a second, William felt like the air had been sucked out of his lungs. Then, the woman turned slightly and William could breathe again once he glimpsed her profile.

Joan Marcel.

William walked over to her. "Joan! What the fuck are you even doing in here?" The sight of a woman in the tent, surrounded by the suffering and the dying, had truly jarred him.

Joan turned around to face him, her face anxious. She indicated to the unconscious soldier next to her, who had been stripped of his armour to better see his injuries. It was Sir Robert Cherbourn.

William placed his ear close to the man’s bloodied chest and listened. He could hear a faint rattling sound every time the man drew in a ragged breath. It was a lost cause.

Straightening, William faced the young woman and said with as much gentleness as he could manage, "I’m sorry Joan, but I don’t think Sir Robert is going to survive this."

Joan looked at him, stricken. "How can you know for sure?"

"I can hear rattling as he breathes. That’s usually a very bad sign, it means deep injury to his chest and possibly his heart or lungs." he explained. "I can’t know for sure, of course, but the likelihood of death is high. I suggest you make plans to leave the camp. My offer still stands for one of my men to escort you back-"

"No." Joan responded coldly.

"No? What the hell do you plan to do then?"

"What else? Find another tent, another bed. Find another way to survive." Joan’s eyes were hard. "Is your bed still closed off to me, Your Highness?"

"Of course it is!" William hissed.

Joan nodded and replied without a trace of shame. "Then I shall find another. I noticed your cousin, the brown haired one, looking at me last night. Perhaps I’ll approach him."

"Tom? He has a wife also." he warned her.

"And does he have the same level of devotion to his marital vows as you, my lord?"

"Well, no..." William was forced to admit.

Joan nodded again, then stalked towards the tent flap. She wasn’t even bothering to wait to see if Sir Robert would actually recover or not, William observed cynically. She was already off to search for her next lifeline.

At any rate, William ended up being right. Within a couple of hours, Sir Robert Cherbourn was dead.

- - -

The next morning, the Islian army was on the march again, deliberately fanning out over the land they had just reconquered. The wounded soldiers who were expected to survive, were carried aboard wagons. Those who were deemed on the verge of death were prayed over, then had to be left behind.

Upon his warhorse, William watched grimly as his men steadily moved north. After half a day’s marching, the army set up camp next to a gentle bend in the river. Dismounting, William lead his horse to the water. Luckily their position was several miles upstream of the site of their defeat a few months ago, so the waters were sweet.

After watching some of his knights bathing, William shucked off his armour and clothes, and waded into the slow moving river. Dunking himself in the cool water, he was desperate to scrub away the layers of sweat and dirt.

When he eventually stumbled back onto the riverbank and pulled his clothes onto his wet body, William noticed one of his knights waving at him. The man eventually approached and bowed.

"My lord, a message has arrived for you." The man held out a tattered piece of parchment.

William dried his hands on his tunic before accepting it. "Is this from the king?" he was confused.

"No, Your Grace. I’m told it’s from court. One of the messengers dropped it off several weeks ago and in the chaos of all the fighting and marching, it got rather lost."

William’s heart leapt when he unfolded it and he saw the loose, elegant script. It was from Camilla. He placed the letter against his heart. "Thank you." he beamed at the knight.

He walked back to where his tent had been pitched, so he could read the note alone. He was glad to read that his wife was well. She also commiserated him on the passing of Richard Bentworth. He smiled at her compassion, knowing she wouldn’t have been the least bit troubled by the death.

Sitting there with the precious letter in his hand, he realised how fortunate he was to have a literate wife, one who could write to him. He tucked the letter safely into the bottom of his satchel. It was the only communication he’d had with Camilla since he’d left Westerhaven and he intended to keep it safe as a talisman.