Heart of the Crown

3. The Traitor-2

The ride to Falford was long and arduous, and by the time the rooftops of the city came into view, Alric was sore. He considered himself an excellent horseman, but five full days in the saddle had left him with aching legs, and a backside that begged for release from the saddle.

The city looked so peaceful from this point of view as the contingent rode down the hill toward the river valley wherein lay the town. No guards accosted them, and Alric's fear that the city had risen in revolt were soon put to rest. They entered the cobblestone streets, making their way to the baron's estate; a large house set back from the river. To their amazement, they were welcomed; a groom taking their horses, seemingly unaware of any impending emergency. Could they have been wrong? They were escorted inside, where a servant offered them food and drink. The baron, they were told, was indisposed but would be with them shortly.

"What do you make of it, Alstan?"

His elder brother looked about the finely appointed room, before speaking, "It looks pretty normal here."

"Could the reports have been wrong?"

"No," Alstan said defensively, "it's from a trusted source."

"So what do we do?"

"Don't offer any information. We'll talk to him first, then arrest him once we confirm some details. Just follow my lead."

"Very well," Alric agreed.

Shortly after the door opened, the Baron of Falford stepped through. Lord Hartly Babbington was a middle-aged fellow, with a rosy complexion and a healthy appetite. His robust frame was tightly squeezed into a well-made surcoat, while jewels adorned his fingers.

"Your Highnesses," he began, "I'm sorry I wasn't here to welcome you, but your visit was most unexpected, and I was otherwise engaged. I trust you've been looked after?"

"We have," replied Alstan. "Thank you. Your servants have been most gracious."

"Excellent," their host said, moving toward a chair. "Pray sit, and tell me the purpose of your visit."

"We have heard," said Alstan, taking a seat on a comfortable looking armchair, "that an army was raised to invade Merceria."

If they were hoping to see surprise on the baron's face, they were very disappointed. "That's true," he said, simply. "What of it?"

"Only the king can order troops across the border. It's an act of war!"

"My dear prince," the baron replied, "calm yourself. I assure you that no Weldwyn troops have entered Merceria."

"But troops did march?"

"Yes, certainly," the baron said, smiling.

To Alric's mind, the nobleman was playing a devious game of some sort.

"Can you explain how that can be true?" Alstan said at last. "Did troops enter Merceria from Weldwyn or not?"

The baron paused to take a sip of wine. "Yes, Your Highness, troops did cross the border, but they were not from Weldwyn. They were mercenaries."

"Mercenaries?" Alric blurted out. "Where would mercenaries come from?"

"Perhaps the term 'mercenaries' gives the wrong idea," stated the baron. "Let's instead call them volunteers."

Now it was Alstan's turn to speak out, "You let troops cross into Merceria without royal approval. You've committed treason!"

"Have I, Your Highness? I think not. The rebellion against the King of Merceria will succeed, and then there will be a friendly monarch on the throne. Surely that outcome is worth the gamble?"

"You're a fool, Baron," spat out Alstan. "Do you have any idea what the Mercerian army is like?"

"They're a bunch of barbarians," the baron stated. "A few hundred volunteers should easily be able to defeat them."

"I've studied Merceria," Alstan continued, calming himself. "I've learned all I can about them. They have a massive army, much bigger than ours, easily twice the size. Do you know why?"

The baron, caught off guard by this tidbit of information, simply shook his head.

"The entire kingdom was founded by mercenaries. They even call it the warrior's crown. To them, fighting is everything. They've been fighting for their survival since they first formed the kingdom, been in almost a constant state of warfare. You've just given them an excuse to invade Weldwyn."

Alric was taken aback. He had always thought of Merceria as the enemy, but he had no idea what they were really like. To hear they had such numbers troubled him deeply.

"In the name of the Crown, I place you under arrest on the charge of treason," Alstan announced, the rage gone from his voice, to be replaced by resignation. "We will be escorting you back to the capital to face judgement."

"I'm sure the king will understand-"

"The penalty for treason is death," Alstan interrupted. "The king issued the warrant for your arrest." He produced the warrant, handing it to the baron, whose face grew pale as he read it.

"Guards!" called Alstan and four of the king's men entered the room. "Take this man into custody. We'll ride out as soon as the horses have been watered."

The soldiers escorted the prisoner out, while the baron blubbered. "It's all a misunderstanding!" he shouted, but Alstan ignored him.

The room fell silent as the elder prince paced.

"Is it as bad as it sounds?" Alric asked.

"Yes," Alstan replied. "War is looming, and I fear a Mercerian reprisal. They're a bloodthirsty kingdom and no friend to Weldwyn. We're in no shape to face them."

"Surely the army-" protested Alric.

"No," interrupted Alstan. "The bulk of the army is west. The Twelve Clans have been restless of late, and there have been signs we might have to repel an invasion. This comes at the worst possible time."

"The Clans have always been restless. What makes this any different?" Alric enquired.

"In the past, they were always distracted by infighting, but now they seem united in their determination to expand their borders. Word is they even elected a High King, something that has never happened before, as far as we know."

"A High King?"

"Yes, each of the twelve clans have always had their own chieftain, but never have all the clans spoken with a single voice. Now it seems they've buried their differences."

Alric fell silent. Events were rapidly building, but to what end he didn't understand.