The Aftermath Read online

  The screams of one's countrymen as they cooked in their own flesh was a potent distraction. The armies of the north, carried by momentum and distracted by the screams in the east, approached the first line of tents, ready to release their fear and anger at the enemy. They were met with exploding tents of oil, detonated by the Magnahul warriors who stood beyond the heat of the flames. Unable to stop in time, row after row of ranks of men collided with the wall of fire. The Moroccans watching from the shadows had but one regret – that there were insufficient numbers of the enemy to bleed.

  The south, now watching the calamitous events in the north and hearing the east in the throes of agony, were certain their own doom awaited. But their fate was worse. As they descended to the first ranks of tents, it was not exploding oil that pounced on them. It was those gargantuan scimitar-wielding Moroccans. Like a knife through butter, they sent their blades through the throats of the descending French soldiers. Line by line, men lost possession of their skulls and fell into a pile like meat on a butcher’s table.

  The ones that got through the first line of tents were met with more scimitars and swords in the rear ranks. It was like walking through a shredder. Not one Moroccan was injured. Not one Highlander, killed.

  Above the scene of the blood-letting, five thousand battle-hardened Highland soldiers encircled the ridge, blocking off any escape for those who left honor on the field of battle and chose to run. The icy waters of the bay guarded the western escape route. When it was over, a handful of French – the ones who tried to escape, surrendered. Of seventy-five thousand men, less than ten stood, drenched in the crimson that once flowed through the veins of their kin.

  The ten men were given a carriage, filled to the brim with heads, and set free. They were told to return to Inverness and relate the massacre to whoever sat in Lord Barnacle's seat. The battlefield, once home to dozens of families, now sat silent. An eerie hue of red stained the land, tents and mud. Sunrise would shed light on the degree of the carnage. The land was turned into a memorial for the French who fell that day to satisfy the whims of an impetuous Scottish boy.

  Chapter 4

  The Rider

  “T he broken neck was a good omen," she said. "Take off his clothes." Hagan implicitly understood the plan she intended. He managed to peel the dead soldier's jacket and removed his clothes. When he looked up, he realized that Bronia was undressed as well.

  “Hurry,” she whispered.

  Her momentary lack of covering revealed multiple scars on her body. Most of them were undoubtedly painful, but one, in particular, caught his attention. It was the one that crossed her left shoulder, just below the collarbone. It was the same place, size, and shape as the birthmark Clarissa possessed. The sight of that flushed his urgency and distracted his resolve.

  He snapped out of it, still unnerved, but decided to not look up again. He passed her the clothes in the order she needed them. Once dressed, she took the rider's horse and told Hagan to follow her. When they approached Chateau Fountainbleu, they would split. He would seek out Lord Henry, and she would ride to the palace and seek an audience with the king for an urgent message.

  “To what end?" Hagan asked, half knowing the answer.

  She looked at him with incredulous eyes. Surely, he knew. The time to waste on poor interpretations was not on them. In the interest of clarity, she explained the obvious.

  “I shall enter King Philip’s chambers and slay him as I have done Anstruthers, Barnacle and many more.”

  “But those were on the Isles. This is in France.”

  “I have killed in France too.”

  Hagan had not anticipated that answer. Indeed, Bronia Magnahul was the most lethal weapon in Adelstan Magnahul’s arsenal. Killing the King of France would bring an end to any bloodshed that may occur.

  As she made final modifications to her new wardrobe, Hagan concealed the corpse in the bushes. It wouldn't be found till morning. She mounted the messenger's horse and handed the reins of her own to Hagan.

  At the moment that was finally upon them, a sudden feeling of unease descended upon Hagan. She could see it in his eyes. Hagan was caught in between. He hadn’t told Bronia this, but each time he saw her, she looked more like Clarissa than she did Bronia.

  He stood at the precipice of fate and stared directly at what it had to offer. As she galloped into the night, without having said goodbye, Hagan began to feel a deepening sense of doom. He realized that she was leaving him farther behind and he gave chase. He had a change of heart. He had to tell her not to go.

  Even with his improving skill, he was no match for the heir of the Magnahul clan who had been riding giant steeds since she was six. She knew how to become one with the horse. Together they flew like Pegasus, with hoofs hardly pounding the earth. It was effortless, mesmerizing, and sublime. As the distance grew between them, Hagan realized that it was futile to give chase. But he tried until he came to the point they were to diverge. He had no choice now. He had to make his way to Lord Henry.

  Bronia was glad to be on a fresh horse and making her way to Fountainbleu. She hoped Hagan did not notice that she had begun to cry. The thought of parting with the Alchemist brought pain to her heart. He made her feel safe and she had begun to feel that she could rely on him. There was a connection there and it was a bridge that was not built with sorcery. There was a universal connection between the two. Both did not know what that was or how it was possible.

  Hagan was fairly certain of his path to Lord Henry, but he had to be careful. He still had some distance to travel and had to keep pulling his thoughts away from what it was that he had shared with Bronia. What was it that was so familiar about her? The scientist in him was relentless. It kept peeling back the layers and the possibilities of what their connection meant. He could feel the answer was at the cusp of realization but it eluded him. It was fragile and the mere approach of it caused the realization to recoil.

  It didn't take long before Bronia steadied herself and steeled her heart. She was approaching the manicured gardens that surrounded the magnificent castle. A garrison of Gendarmes stood in parade around the main entrance. She came to a halt in front of the commander who greeted her. She feigned a cough as she signaled to him about the urgency of the matter and the seal of the garrison commander who signed the message.

  He let her pass.

  Hagan moved swiftly to get to the front where Lord Henry camped. There were soldiers on both sides of him. Most were awake, even if they were in the dark. They were in miserable conditions. It was cold and no fire warmed them. But still, the men were elated. They had already felt victorious. If nothing else, Lord Henry knew how to rouse his men. Two horses came astride. They spoke in French. Hagan responded in English.

  “I need to see King...Lord Henry. I have an urgent message from Lady Bronia Magnahul."

  One rode off while the other kept watch. It didn't take long before he returned and escorted Hagan. The horses were given to the second rider and the men proceeded on foot.

  Lord Henry’s tent remained in the dark as well. It was indistinguishable from the rest of the troops. If King Philip knew of Henry’s involvement, it would be a certainty that he would hold him for ransom. For his security, Henry had to blend in.

  “Who are you?" asked, Lord Henry.

  “My name is Rylen Hagan. I rode here with Lady Bronia Magnahul.”

  “That is not likely. Lady Bronia had business elsewhere."

  “Yes, in Inverness Castle. I know. I went there to find her and give her passage to Le Havre."

  “Is Barnacle dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is Lord Magnahul? Why is he not here yet?”

  Hagan went on to tell the Lord Henry all that had happened. After sufficient cross-examining, the man left and vanished into the darkness. A moment later another man entered visual distance from the point the other man disappeared.

  “Forgive my caution. I am Lord Henry. That was my personal guard.”

  “Lord
Magnahul is delayed, I take it?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Where is Bronia now?”

  “By this point, she should be within the palace walls.”

  Lord Henry was concerned. He was a man that worked the plan down to the last detail. This was not the plan, and the man that he had planned it with was not present. A man who spoke differently and one he had never seen – not to mention did not look like a Highlander, spoke in his stead.

  At the same time, not far from the field where the Welsh troops sat under the stars, Bronia Magnahul had passed the palace guards and was being escorted to the king's receiving chamber. She walked into a full court – not what she expected at that time of the evening. The regent spoke for the king.

  “Come,” he commanded in French.

  Bronia, dressed impeccably as the messenger, approached and bowed as required. The regent signaled for the message and received it. As he peeled its cover, he noticed that the seal was broken. Bronia wasn't expecting it to go this far. She had to act quickly. Before she could spring into action she heard trumpets blare and the call to arms issued across the palace. Lord Henry had begun the assault.

  The ensuing confusion presented the needed opportunity. Between the urgent message and the trumpet signaling imminent threat, the regent grew distracted. The palace guard hurried to escort the king. This was what Lord Henry and her father were afraid of. Chateau Fountainbleu had an escape route. No one knew where it was located, but once the king was scuttled to that exit, he would disappear. From wherever he was at the time, he would be able to summon help from his neighbors and bring his troops back from the borders.

  Bronia had to act now. She shifted her weight back to load her muscles then leaped forward until she arrived just behind the king's guards. She pushed one away, and in the commotion, it was hard to understand what the rider was doing.

  The regent looked to the soldier. The solder looked to the King's Guard and the guards looked to the king, who, in his bewilderment, had stopped in his tracks. Bronia, as she had so often done flawlessly, unsheathed her dagger as she lunged. Her aim was flawless, her execution perfect. Her arm and the dagger that led it headed straight for the French monarch's pale neck. The next sound they heard was that of the body hitting the floor. The arrow that took aim at Bronia found its mark and plucked her out of the air in mid-flight. The momentum of the arrow penetrated her side, piercing the intercostal, shearing through her right lung, pulverizing her heart, and then blowing through her left lung before its head sprouted out her left side. It had come from a crossbow. She was dead before she smashed to the ground.

  Chapter 5

  Tunnels and Kings

  L ord Henry had decided that the risk was no longer worth taking. If Bronia carried the message and did not achieve her goal, the message would be open and the king would slither out through the subterranean tunnels.

  Riders were sent to the encampment just beyond the valley where the French regiment Bronia and Hagan had seen were located. They were being summoned to protect the palace. It didn't take long for the regiment to come to its aid.

  Magnahul warriors had come from behind and crushed the French that had attacked Lord Henry's rearguard. The soldiers lay decimated. Magnahul made his way to the king's chamber to be told by the guards outside that they could not find the king.

  Magnahul was stoic, but a deep fury raged from within. This will cause more bloodshed.

  “Where is Bronia?" Hagan asked as he burst into the antechamber where Magnahul stood.

  Surprised, Magnahul turned, "Bronia?" he queried. "What do you mean? And, why are you here?"

  Hagan didn’t answer. He could feel that something was not right. He was afraid that she may have been taken prisoner to be ransomed later. Lord Henry appeared from Philip’s chamber. “Magnahul,” he said solemnly, "I am sorry, my friend."

  Magnahul was beginning to focus on the picture that was coming into view. Hagan went passed Henry as Magnahul stared at his fellow nobleman.

  Before any words could be exchanged, a scream from the chamber penetrated the halls of the palace. Hagan had found Bronia's limp body. He had lost Clarissa for the second time.

  Magnahul stood resolute in the room outside. He didn’t need to see his only child – the girl who reminded him of the woman he loved, dead. He also had more pressing matters and didn’t have the luxury of allowing the distraction. The French needed to be vanquished this night or the blood loss that ensued would be incalculable.

  “Find me a French guard,” he said firmly.

  His men spread across the palace until they found two. He walked over to the guard who had shot Bronia, not knowing that it was he. The man had been slain by Henry's men. Beside him was the crossbow. Magnahul loaded it and returned to the two guards that had just been corralled by his men.

  “Where are Philip’s tunnels?”

  The first guard made a lewd gesture. Without a moment of hesitation, Magnahul shot the man just below the collarbone. It penetrated the man’s torso, missing his lungs but shattering the upper scapula in the back. The men in the room heard the sound of bone shatter in his body. The pain threw the guard into a convulsive state as he wretched blood and vomit.

  Magnahul loaded the crossbow again and placed it, point-blank, on the man's right scapula.

  “WHERE?" he thundered.

  “No.”

  The second shot was released. Again, the scapula shattered. The man would never be able to pick up a child or hold a sword for the rest of his life. Magnahul casually loaded the bow again while the man lay in agony, bleeding. He gave the crossbow to one of his men, then walked over to the stubborn guard.

  This time, he whispered, "Where?" while he twisted the two arrows. He took both the arrows with his two massive hands, gripped them and put his boot on the man's chest. "One last time, where do the tunnels lead?"

  The man screamed in agony. He had been sworn to secrecy and was about to give his life to fulfill that oath. Magnahul, enraged by how the night had unfolded, was in no mood to play games. The raw energy of the giant was bursting at the seams. His daughter lay lifeless in the room beyond, and the king who could destroy his people was fleeing. He was not a man to be trifled with on any occasion, but today – right now, it was perilous to stand against him.

  “Where?”

  His question found no answer.

  The man, now clear in his mind of how his fate would unfold, began to cry. The pain had overwhelmed all of him, but his honor and allegiance to his king remained steadfast. "No monsieur, I cannot tell." This time he uttered the hesitation with more politeness. But politeness was not the return that was expected. Magnahul lunged at his chest, pushing him with the giant boot while pulling on the two arrows. The man's arms dislodged from their sockets and ripped off the tissue. The avalanche of shock and pain administered to him was too much for any man. He died before hitting the ground.

  With no time to lose and to capitalize on the gore of the scene, Magnahul turned to the other guard who was witness to the brutality afforded to his comrade. He succumbed before the first syllable of the question was uttered.

  “There, there, the entrance to the tunnel! It leads to the east garden beyond the reflecting pool.”

  Magnahul turned to his men and whispered an instruction. He then turned to his riders and told them to go to the tunnel’s exit and arrest the king before he escaped into the night. A garrison departed instantly while Magnahul stopped as the men he originally whispered to, covered Bronia and carried her outside. He refused to look at the body as it passed him.

  With business in order, a small detachment of twenty men followed Magnahul and Henry to the tunnel as they made haste in their pursuit of the king. As large as he was and as aged as he had become, Magnahul had bovine strength and feline agility.

  As they descended into the tunnel, they picked up speed. In the distance, they began to hear footsteps. Horses and men were close. They were gaining ground. Magnahul, as level-minded and
even-keeled as always, moved with a singular focus. Sacrifice and fatigue were far from his mind.

  When they got to the end, the horses and men were their own. The king was nowhere to be found. Magnahul did not waste time indulging in regret. He dispatched his fastest riders to scour the fields and find the king.

  In vain, his efforts were. They were too late. King Philip was gone.

  Chapter 6

  Choices and Consequences

  “W e have two choices, Adelstan," Henry began. "We can take the Fountainbleu, the seat of the monarch, and claim the advantage. Or," he continued, "we can march for the coast and return to the Isles."

  “There is a third choice, Henry.” Magnahul was pensive and focused. He was obviously gaming out the scenarios in his head. Magnahul went on to explain his thoughts. Henry could see the merits of the plan and that its probability of success was greater than any other option they had.

  “My men are yours to command,” said Henry. “Let us finish what we started.”

  The noblemen returned to the palace through the tunnels where they issued orders. Riders were to dispatch later that night and head for the coast. They were to convey Magnahul’s commands to the sea captains. Magnahul now had to think about the plan that would give rise to those instructions.

  The Welsh and Highland soldiers that stood on palace grounds were told to camp for the night. They would march in the morning. Spies were dispatched in eight directions of the compass to ride at top speed until dawn. They were to scout the area and understand the loyalties of the locals and ascertain troop densities and movements.

  Chateau Fountainbleu was now camp for almost seventy thousand men of the Isles. Magnahul strolled through the palace and located Philip’s official chambers. The rush to protect the king left his papers intact in the office.

  It wasn't after the eight riders departed for the points on the compass did Magnahul realize that all the possible information he could need was all about him, in table drawers, chests, and shelves. The king's private office was a treasure trove of information. A diorama of France and old Gaul lay on a table, the size of a peasant's vegetable garden. One look and he could see where every army, battalion, and spy was located.