By The Gods's Ears (Chanson de Guerre Book 1)

Book summary

When Prince Henri sets his sights on Emmeline, her parents, Gilles and Murielle, must act quickly to protect her. As Murielle reveals a hidden past, she embarks on a perilous journey to save her daughter and prevent a devastating war. Ancient powers stir, and the fate of the kingdom hangs in the balance.

Excerpt from By The Gods's Ears

Chapter One

The unrelenting drought plagued the Prince’s hunting party. After a long struggle to catch anything with little appreciable success, the Prince declared in the fading evening twilight the entire endeavor a failure. They would make camp and return to the city of Darloque in the morning. As the other hunters unsaddled their horses and made arrangements for the night, the Prince trod off into the thickening darkness alone. No one dared follow him.

            When the twilight gray of morning had given way to the first tinges of sullen orange, the solitary figure of the Prince returned from the wilderness, his mood substantially lifted from the previous evening. As his men moved about in their morning rituals, he greeted each one warmly, congenially slapping his hand on backs, and speaking to them with bright and encouraging words. Each man watched the Prince warily, waiting for the punishment he did not merit. When no random act of punishment came, the wariness shifted quickly to apprehension and then to outright fear. The Prince mounted his saddled horse with a cry of, “Home men! Onward to Darloque!” The others followed dutifully.

            The hunting party made quick progress across the open plain, the stubby, drought-stricken grasses offering little resistance to the galloping horses. Shortly, they came upon the road to Darloque. An argument was escalating within a small group at the rear of the hunting party. After much contention, a rider reluctantly kicked his horse faster and drew up alongside the leader and addressed him.

            “My Prince, you appear in much better spirits than last night.” The rider spoke in a dreary tone, which barely veiled his trepidation.

            The Prince kept his eyes forward, seemingly ignorant of his lieutenant’s address.

            He cleared his throat and was about to repeat his statement when the Prince spoke, his eyes still forward, a small smile forming on his lips.

            “I know the men are concerned about my sudden cheerful mood.” He turned to his lieutenant. “Does my sudden cheerful mood disturb you as well, Jean-Louis?”

            The lieutenant kept his composure, showing no response to the jab. “You have your reasons, and I do not question them. The men merely notice a sudden change from the previous night. Such changes, as they have come to learn, usually foretell an unfortunate experience for one of them.”

            The Prince threw his head back and brayed laughter.

            “The men fear the coming storm of your hidden rage,” the lieutenant said flatly. “But I know you all too well. This grand mood of yours is genuine, and I wish to know its source.”

            The Prince ceased his laughter. His face dropped, and his eyes lit with hellish fire, seemingly perturbed that his lieutenant could judge his moods so well. He leaned over to the lieutenant and whispered just loudly enough over the thunder of their horse’s hooves: “This grand mood of mine is indeed genuine, for soon I shall make my greatest achievement which will etch my name in the great book of history.”

            The lieutenant pressed his lips together tightly. He could think of no response to this fantastic pronouncement.

            “We have no time for details now. Let us make haste for the city, I will give you and the men the specifics when we reach the castle.” The Prince kicked his horse faster. The other men, seeing this, kicked their horses as well, endeavoring to keep up with the pace. The lieutenant gradually slowed his horse, and then reined it to a halt in the middle of the road.

            “This bodes not well,” he said quietly. “I do not know the meaning of this yet, but still it bodes not well.” After a moment of silence, the lieutenant kicked his horse into a hard gallop after the Prince and his entourage.

            The Prince stayed far ahead of the others for some time. The lieutenant intentionally held his charger back behind the main group, wishing the time alone with his thoughts. He looked up to see that the Prince and the other men had disappeared around a bend in the road. Tall but rangy stalks of corn grew across a field all the way up to the edge of the road blocking the lieutenant’s view of the hunting party. He rounded the bend to find the entire group stopped in the road watching the Prince as he engaged in conversation with a young farm girl. A very young farm girl.

            The lieutenant pulled his horse to a sharp halt and shook his head sadly. “By the gods’s ears,” he muttered under his breath.

            He had caught up with the Prince in the middle of his pitch, but the girl seemed not to be buying any of it. The lieutenant had to smile a little when the girl gave an impertinent flip of her chestnut hair. She stood back from the road amongst rows of pathetic cornstalks, a basket of small, shriveled ears of corn at her feet. The lieutenant shook his head again, but this time at the mean harvest the girl had been collecting.

            The Prince did not notice the girl’s lack of interest at all. What he did notice was her pert, budding breasts and deeply tanned thighs. The heat was already oppressive just past dawn, and the girl had apparently loosened her collar and hiked her skirts up around her waist in order to work more comfortably. The Prince recited a well-used speech he had given to countless other young farm girls across the country. The lieutenant, unfortunately, had heard it so often he knew it by rote.

            And now he shall tell her how far he has traveled, he thought.

            “And, my lady, I have seen the White Forests in the North, traveled the lands beyond Ocosse in the vast Eastern Steppes, climbed the magnificent Silent Mountains to the South, and sailed on the Great Western Sea–”

            The girl broke in. “You have seen the sea?” She took a couple of quick steps toward the Prince.

            Momentarily thrown off his pace by her interruption, the Prince’s face dropped for the briefest of moments and a look of uncertainty flashed in his eyes. Only the lieutenant noticed.

            “Why yes, my lady,” the Prince answered after the moment had passed, “I have been to the sea, but its beauty pales in comparison to yours.”

            A few snickers behind him. The Prince did not notice; he was focused upon his prey.

            “You must tell me what it is like!” the girl cried. She had completely missed the Prince’s compliment, focused entirely as she was upon the subject of the sea. She did take another step toward him though.

            “Describe the sea? It would be like trying to describe your beauty to a blind man. Words could not contain it.” The Prince was off his script, but he was displaying a rare moment of creative inspiration. “Describe it, I cannot, but I would gladly take you there.”

            The girl’s eyes lit up and she took another step forward. She was almost upon him now. “You would?! Oh! I would so much like to visit the sea!”

            More snickers from behind. Still, the Prince did not notice, nor did the girl.

            “I would with much delight show you the brilliant blue of the Great Western Sea.” The Prince leaned down from his horse. “Ah, there is nothing like standing in the lustrous white sand watching great foaming whitecaps crashing onto the shore. The sounds of the waves and the wind, the smell of the salt in the air! C’est magnifique!”

            The lieutenant shook his head sadly as he saw the girl’s eyes light up and he realized yet another innocent was caught in the snare.

            “Oh, you must take me! Please!” Her eyes were wide and wild, her voice pleading.

            “Oh yes, my lady, I certainly will.” The Prince looked across the field. “Your house,” he said, indicating the small stone structure at the end of a cart track. “Your parents are there, are they not?”

            “Yes!” the girl replied eagerly.

            “Well, I must ask their permission to take their daughter on such a long journey.” A broad rapacious grin spread across the Prince’s face. “We must respect their wishes.”

            More snickering came from behind followed by a couple of guffaws that were immediately shushed by the others. The Prince was completely oblivious to the men, enthralled as he was with the catch.

            “Oh yes! Oh yes!” The girl exclaimed brightly. “But they shall say yes! They shall! They shall!”

            The Prince said his farewells, promising to return for her soon, and kicked his horse into a gallop down the cart track toward the farmhouse. The men followed suit, ogling the girl as they passed, and laughing with each other.

            Only the lieutenant remained. He stared at the girl sadly and heaved a mournful sigh. The girl regarded him curiously. For a moment, their eyes locked. The girl suddenly could feel the heavy burden the man carried. She felt the weight in her heart and a longing to ease his pain grew within her. The rider broke his gaze with her, reined his horse around, and slowly rode after his comrades. Just as quickly as the feeling had come upon the girl, it was gone.

#

            Murielle froze when the unexpected staccato of furious knocking came at the door. Her eyes darted nervously about the room. Where is Gilles? she thought, a slow panic rising in her. “Non, non,” she whispered, trying to calm herself. Gilles was working the fields and an unfamiliar knock at the door of their home could be nothing more than a traveler seeking rest. Their home lay on the main road to Darloque, and quite often weary pilgrims stopped to find rest and repose from their travels. Never had they regretted taking a stranger in. They lived by the maxim “Welcome a stranger and be rewarded manifold.” Gilles had engraved the motto in ornate script on a plank, which hung over the door.

            “But why so early in the morning?” she said, louder than she intended. The knock came again, full of foreboding. This bodes not well, she thought, this time holding her tongue should Gilles suddenly enter. The words over the door mocked her in their simplicity, their naiveté. The staccato came again, ever more urgently. Murielle moved hesitantly toward the door, reminded of another tenet: “One cannot turn his back on Fate.”

            As she drew in breath slowly and held it, she pulled open the door. Let us dispense with this quickly. At the doorway stood a tall burly man with an unfamiliar face, a man she had never seen before in her life. Oh, thank the gods, she thought automatically, it is only a traveler seeking repose on his long journey.

            “Good morning, Madame,” said the stranger, thickly.

            “Good morning, Monsieur,” she returned with a heavy sigh, “What has brought you to my humble home this fair morning?”

            The stranger stood wordlessly for a moment, a constrained look on his face as though he were attempting the arduous task of collecting his thoughts. Suddenly he burst out, “Madame.”

            “Yes,” she replied.

            “Bonjour,” he began, as though attempting recitation of an ill-remembered speech, “It is my pleasure...um...to present to you...um...His royal highness...um… the Prince.” The burly man stepped aside, offering an awkward bow to the Prince who had been standing behind him.

            Murielle’s blood froze. The Prince strolled indifferently past her into the house. “You must forgive my new man he has not quite gotten that memorized yet. He is otherwise particularly useful and came highly recommended.”

            By the gods’s ears, Murielle thought, her relief returning to panic, where is Emmeline?

            The Prince strolled casually around the small stone cottage wrinkling his nose at the simplicity of it. “What a simply charming home you have here, Madame.” The Prince offered his compliment flatly with just a hint of veiled distaste in his voice.

            “Ahh...” was all that Murielle could offer in response.

            “Well Madame, I am sure you are very busy this morning so I will come to the matter directly.” The Prince paused at a chair in the center of the room as though he might sit then changed his mind. “I have seen the most beautiful girl up by the road who tells me that she is your daughter.”

            Emmeline! NON!

            The Prince turned to face Murielle.

            Murielle’s head began to spin. For years she had heard the stories of the Prince’s appetite for young girls. At first, she had dismissed the stories as just that, stories. Rumor volat, as the priests say, she thought, rumors fly. But as time passed and the Prince became more brazen in his pursuit of young girls, even the most outrageous stories became believable.

            Why me, she asked herself, why us, why Emmeline?

            “I would like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.” It was more a command than a request.

            As a woman and a mother, Murielle had pitied the families the Prince had touched with his lechery. Deep inside, however, she had convinced herself that such things only happened to other people, not to her and Gilles. She was sure that it would miss them because they were isolated and watchful. Foolishness, she told herself now, foolishness and vanity to think that they were immune from the Prince’s sickness. But it was here, now. The madness had touched her, the sickness was upon her, and her daughter was gone.

            “I assure you, Madame, your daughter will want for nothing,” the Prince recited. “She shall be my queen, and I her loyal consort.” He walked abruptly toward the door and announced, “I am worn and weary from my hunt, I shall return for your daughter this evening when I am refreshed.”

            The Prince exited the cottage with a flourish of his hunting cape. The burly man at the door offered a mechanical bow as he passed. Murielle watched blankly, her mouth agape, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The burly man offered her an unsettling wink as he pulled the door closed, a large humorless grin spread across his face, a grin that was more hungry than menacing.

             Murielle snapped out of her torpor and rushed to the door. She threw it open with a bang and gazed upon the assemblage outside her home. The Prince was just mounting his horse while a large group of men chatted amongst themselves on their mounts. All the men with the Prince were large, burly, and menacing characters like the first one. Save for one.

            He was older than the rest, about her age. Although slightly slumped in the saddle of his horse, his frame carried a look of strength and power. He wore his hair to his shoulders in the fashion of a knight of the Old King–the style her father had worn. His horse was a large, dark, fast-looking charger with a fiery eye and a muscular build brought of fine breeding. Yes, she thought, I do not know much, but I do know the appearance of one of the Old King’s true knights. Her eyes locked on his. So, what are you doing with this sorry lot?

            Murielle’s heart softened as she gazed into the knight’s eyes. Despair dwelt in those eyes, and it washed over her, melding with her own sadness. He carried a heavy burden, the weight of the world–and then some, perhaps–upon his shoulders. He was not broken, yet, but he was very well near the point of breaking. Her eyes pleaded desperately with him. Please, I know you can stop this. Murielle felt her eyes welling with tears as she appealed to him across the gap. A single tear slipped down his cheek. I am sorry, he mouthed before he reined his horse around and rode up the track after his associates.

            “Hurry up, Jean-Louis!” the Prince shouted, and this brought uproarious laughter from the other men.

            Murielle closed the door on the fading drum of hoof beats and pressed her head against the rough-hewn wooden frame. She sighed heavily. By the gods’s ears. She rubbed her forehead back and forth against the coarse surface. Pourquoi? Why, why, why? With her head still pressed to the doorframe, she turned her eyes to the altar near the door. “You could not even protect us from this,” she reproached the god. “What good are you?”

            Of all the hardships they had endured in their lives, nothing compared to this. How would she tell Gilles? That was difficult enough, but how would she explain it to Emmeline? She was just an innocent girl of only twelve seasons who knew nothing of the world.

            As if on command, Emmeline burst through the back door of the house with a basket in her hands. She looked eagerly about the room, then her eyes settled excitedly upon her mother. “Mama, mama! Did you speak to him?!”

            Murielle turned slowly to face her daughter, and her eyes drifted idly to the basket the girl held. The drought, now in its third season, had again reduced the crop to a mere shadow of its once glorious bounty. The crop had long since diminished beyond the point of producing enough to sell at the market, and now it was incapable of supplying enough to feed them through the winter. Murielle turned back to the altar. First the drought and this pitiful harvest, and now you put this new scourge upon us.

            She regarded her daughter again. It occurred to her that the girl seemed to have grown overnight. Emmeline’s face had slimmed; nearly gone was the chubby roundness of childhood. Her hair now had a silken sheen to it. And her skin, tanned from working in the sun, had a certain luster to it. Murielle could see curves on Emmeline where there had previously been none.

            With a sudden shock, Murielle realized that Emmeline had taken down her long hair, so it hung to her waist. Her daughter’s skirt was hiked up almost that high, and her blouse was open, offering a glimpse of the womanhood developing beneath.

            “Where did you pick these?” Murielle asked, her eyes narrowing.

            Emmeline gave an impertinent flip of her silky hair, the long, lustrous hair of a young girl barely touched by time, and replied, “Out by the road.”

            Murielle balled her hands into fists. “Child!” she hissed through clenched teeth, “How many times have I told not to work by the road and if you must, tie your hair and wear your breeches!”

            “Mama!” Emmeline began to protest.

            “Girl, I do not tell you these things simply to hear my own voice. I have reasons for what I tell you to do!”

            Emmeline huffed.

            The elder woman groaned and pointed to the altar, “You pick this terrible harvest that this ineffective god provides us, dressed like that, and now...”

            Murielle trailed off. And now what? She began to pace anxiously about the room, wringing her hands. And now what? What do I tell her? That her life is over?

            “Mama,” the girl resumed, “it is barely after sunrise, and already it is sweltering. Breeches are too hot!”

            Murielle opened her mouth to say something then reconsidered, choosing silence as a better option. She merely swayed her head in a slow pendulous arc. Emmeline gaped at her mother in curious disbelief. The sound of silence slowly filled the room.

            A loud cry broke the uncomfortable tension as the man of the house burst through the back door proclaiming, “Family, behold the bountiful harvest the Lord Aufeese has provided for us!” Mother and daughter both turned to see the same withered ears of corn spilling out of his basket that graced Emmeline’s. Gilles gathered up four of the best-looking ears and arranged them in a shallow trough before the altar. Then placing the fingertips of his right hand to his forehead, he kneeled in veneration before the altar and prayed aloud. “Merci beaucoup for this great harvest O Golden Child of Mava, although we are not worthy of your great benefaction.”

            His wife snorted in disgust. His daughter rolled her eyes.

            Gilles stood and turned quickly to Murielle. “Do not mock the Golden Child! We must be thankful for all that he gives us no matter how great–or how small.” Murielle noted the faint tone of despair in those last three words as her husband defended the god of the harvest. It still awed her that even in his frustration, Gilles remained faithful to his god.

            Gilles continued to scold. “It is not for us to know the intentions of the gods, for their ways are far beyond our comprehension. We must have faith in the knowledge that what they do is always for our benefit.”

            Murielle snorted again. And exactly how is the Prince’s lechery for our benefit?

            Gilles jabbed his finger savagely in the direction of Emmeline. “I am so disappointed that your lack of faith has begun to infect our little one. Already she has fallen out of the habit of daily prayer and refuses to make offerings to Lord Aufeese.”

            Emmeline huffed indignantly at the accusation. Some days she did forget to pray to the god, but she did make an offering just yesterday–or maybe it was a few days ago. She could not remember. Anyway, she was not as cynical about the gods as her mother was. Although, she did think it a waste of time to make offerings to a god that did not seem to be listening to their prayers. The rains fell further and further apart while the crops continued to suffer despite her father’s constant prayers. The Lord Aufeese never brought the needed rain, nor did he give them anything they could use to help keep the farm thriving. There was a belief deep inside Emmeline–growing as a corn sprout in fertile soil–that her father wasted his time praying to a deaf god. That is, if he were even there to hear the prayers at all.

            A red flush had been slowly creeping up Murielle’s face. It was a condition Emmeline had often seen in her mother when she was very angry with her father. Her anger seemed to come more quickly and frequently in the last few seasons. Quite often her mother and father argued belligerently over the subjects of religion and faith. More specifically, they argued over his faith in the gods and her faith that there were no such things.

“Fine,” Murielle burst out finally, “would you like to know what your faith has brought unto us now?” Spittle flew from her lips as she unleashed her fury. “Let me tell what your god has let happen to his most faithful servant.” She told Gilles of the whole encounter, and Emmeline’s jaw dropped as the tale began to unfold.