The War of Queens

Chapter 43

Raynor

 The jug split against the floor with a loud crash. Laces were undone with fingers made clumsy with anger, and pieces of armor fell against the floor with the clanks of steel hitting steel.

 “Let me help you, Your Grace,” Raynor’s squire said, rushing behind his lord with quick, nervous steps.

 “I don’t need your help,” Raynor told him.

 “But…”

 “You’ve been dismissed,” he said, harsher this time. The squire jumped a little before fleeing the tent without another word.

 Raynor was seething with anger, and the sound of breaking and his own shouting had done nothing to calm him down. His wine was spilled on the floor and he could not find the energy to call for more. He was heaving for breath, as much because of the exhaustion of battle as because of the knot of anger and disappointment in his stomach. With heavy limbs, he fell into a chair, staring unseeing at the pattern of the tent walls.

 At the sight of deep green glistening from within the pile of armor, he rose from the chair. He picked up the silk handkerchief and stretched it over his palm. It was a beautiful piece of cloth, embroidered with such care for detail that it made his anger calm. He had worn it beneath his armor, above his heart, during the battle, hoping that some of his wife’s strength would enter him. For she was strong, even if he did not love her like he should. She was much stronger than him - but it seemed not even her strength had been enough.

 No one dared enter. The King was in a mood, and history had taught people that in such an case, interrupting was a bad idea. And in this case, it was not only anger that bothered him, not only the disappointment of being defeated. He was heavy with regret for the lives taken on the battlefield, tense with anxiety that perhaps his army was not the better army.

 It was not until hours later, when he emerged on his own accord, that anyone approached him. By then, he had made up his mind.

 He called for his council. Sir Timothy was there in place of Raymond, who was usually Head of the Royal Army, and Nicholas Rousseau had followed as well. Other than that, his council consisted of seasoned generals who had seen more battle that than Raynor had. They should be leading the army, not me, Raynor thought. Perhaps we would have won if they did.

 “We’ll have to move further south, and quick,” he told them. They had fled many miles south already after the defeat at Snow’s Border, but he did not care for staying in the wilderness without a wall keeping them safe. “I wish to return to Westhall to protect my family, but only with some of my men. I will send half my army to Tibera, to protect my mother’s family lands so that they can work as shelter in case of defeat.”

 All the advisors frowned, but only one spoke. “You have lost one battle, and already you prepare to lose the war?” he said. His name was Jonas, he had only one name, but he was known to be good on the battlefield.

 “I need to prepare for all outcomes,” he reasoned.

 “They fought well today,” Sir Timothy said. “Who is to say they will do so again tomorrow? We might still have victory.”

 “He’s right,” Jonas declared. “Elizabeth and her army’s strength lies in the fact that she has nothing to lose - no lands, no status. She can afford to make bold moves. You have to be brave enough to return them.”

 Raynor looked at the map of Etheron stretched out on the table in front of him. “That might be true, but I do have something to lose. I would rather have safety than defeat.”