reluctant to assemble. There was too much confusion for anything to happen.
Though determined to force a decisive encounter neither Peter nor Regard was prepared for the opportunity. Both were still abed when the first arrows flew. Peter was the worse for a terrible hangover. His people did their best to get him up, get him dressed, get him armed, armored, and mounted. He departed Metrelieux under the stern eyes of his Queen, her gaze so flush with anger that, hangover and all, he preferred a battle to explaining himself.
Peter joined his knights after the fighting became chaotic, neither side pursuing any strategy deeper than hacking at the man who was nearest. Contingents of Navayans sat their mounts outside the fray and did nothing because they had received no instructions and had no initiative. Many Arnhanders did the same. And the Khaurenese stayed well back from danger.
On the wall, beside Brother Candle, Raulet Archimbault grumbled, “I feel like I’m hearing this story for the second time.”
Kedle responded, “You are, Dad. But last time it was the Captain-General. And he was ready.”
Archimbault grunted. “Handed us our heads and hearts and sent us scurrying into the Altai like terrified rats.” He eyed Soames but said nothing.
Kedle, the Perfect noted, did not so much as glance at her husband.
Archimbault said, “Things were different, then.”
Indeed. The Patriarchal forces had been disciplined and well led. For them it had been another day’s work at organized murder.
The Navayans approached to within bowshot before the Arnhanders wakened their sovereign. Regard had spent the night with an equerry named Thierry, sure there would be no fighting for days. The weather made campaigning impractical.
The enemy did not agree. He began making probing attacks. Frightened courtiers brought word that several of Anne’s favorites had fallen already.
The situation looked desperate.
Regard would not be hurried. He refused to hear talk of flight. He performed his morning religious obligation, demanding added blessings for a warrior headed into harm’s way on God’s behalf.
Panic found a home in the hearts of some awaiting the King’s appearance, particularly those in the Connec out of greed rather than conviction. Several dozen knights chose to leave Regard in God’s keeping before he completed his obligation. Among them were three of his cousins, his mother’s brother, and Anne’s latest pet priest, Bishop Mortimar du Blanc. Du Blanc was a senior member of the Arnhander branch of the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy.
The omens were bad from the beginning. Regard’s squires broke the laces on his mail shirt as they tightened them. While they hunted replacements news came that the last hint of organization had fled the battlefield.
More faint hearts discovered a conviction that they would be of more value at home than at Khaurene. Anne might spit and swear but she would not leave them facedown, dead, in freezing Connecten mud.
Several contingents from counties that had shifted allegiance from Tormond IV to Charlve the Dim moved off, refusing to participate, having no desire to make a permanent enemy of Peter of Navaya.
The Navayans had similar problems. Many Direcian allies would not engage unless Peter himself took command.
Elsewhere, King Jaime of Castauriga exceeded his instructions. Rather than block the road to Khaurene he stormed into the Raffle, a valley poorly suited to fighting on horseback.
At Repor ande Busch King Regard’s back cinch broke when he put weight on his stirrup. He fell. His left shoulder and the back of his head hit hard. He did not break his skull, only knocked himself dizzy. But he hurt his shoulder so he could not raise his shield more than a few inches.
His right leg also turned back under him when he fell. Some who were present later claimed they heard bone break. Regard himself only ever admitted to injuring his ankle and knee.
Several dozen more reluctant warriors saw the last evil portent they could stand. They joined the dribble headed north.
Once Regard did settle astride his great gray warhorse the animal at first refused to accept commands. Another ill omen.
Barely two hundred lances followed the Arnhander King when, finally, he rode out to face the victors of Los Naves de los Fantas.
Severely hungover, yet still drunk, Peter of Navaya arrived on the battlefield at the same time. He cursed Count Alplicova for not having been more forceful and aggressive while, at the same time, damning as an idiot any petty-minded count or prince who had failed to carry out Alplicova’s directives. He ordered them to assemble.
Some nobles arrived looking sheepish. Some arrived defiant. More than one, obliquely, indicated that Peter’s disrespect for his Queen had cost him much of his own respect.
It was not so much that he had bedded a woman not his wife but that he had done it in his wife’s home castle, making no effort to be discreet.
Peter, King of Navaya, honored by most Chaldareans and respected by his enemies, nevertheless stood second in the hearts of millions. Good Queen Isabeth’s admirers believed her destined for sainthood.
Peter’s state did not leave him best capable of temperate thinking and reasoned decisions. His allies saw that.
They had no faith at a moment when faith was all they needed.
King Regard led a charge as soon as he got his men aligned. When that line surged forward a dozen horsemen did not move.
The Navayans were not prepared despite Regard’s slow, lackluster preparation for the attack. However, there were a lot of Navayans. And most of the Arnhanders who followed Regard did so out of obligation, not enthusiasm.
The Navayans were no more enthusiastic once it became man-to-man.
Regard set his eye on Peter’s standard and kept pushing that direction.
He kept having dizzy spells. He had trouble staying on his horse. His friends had to protect his left and keep him in the saddle.
No one knew who did what to whom. The chaos only worsened. It became ever more every man for himself. Navayan numbers and experience should have told quickly but did not gel. Count Alplicova never gained tactical control. King Peter had arrived too late. Many of his knights never knew that he had come to the fray. Quite a few got bogged down in the marshy ground while trying to circle the disorganized and confused Arnhanders.
At one point someone knocked Regard off his horse. His men surrounded him. He managed to remount as his foes mistakenly began shouting that he was dead.
The entire engagement was one of the most ill-starred and incompetently managed of the age despite the presence of the veterans, the trained fighters, and the famous commanders. At the root, no one had any idea what they were supposed to be doing.
After what seemed ages of inconclusive, halfhearted, chaotic fighting, King Peter lost control of his mount. The animal had had enough. It bolted. He fell off.
While fighting the Pramans Peter had taken to wearing plain armor so he could not be singled out. Praman Direcian princes considered him a demon incarnate. In every engagement their whole strategy would hinge on their destroying him first. He had followed habit here, though his standard-bearer did stay close.
Stunned by the fall, Peter failed to make his identity known. A foot soldier who could have grown rich ransoming Peter of Navaya instead killed an unknown knight. He used a mason’s pick-hammer to punch holes through Peter’s helmet.
No one noticed. No one knew. The chaos continued. Count Alplicova strove to bring order but had no luck. He began moving his own followers out of the fight, meaning to disengage long enough to re-form.
The Khaurenese militia watched from a slope a few hundred yards distant. They did nothing because no one
