The Withered Rose

By Marcus Pailing

A novel of the Count of Trall.

The daughter of a prince and niece of a king, Atela is the most eligible young woman in the kingdom of Hograth. She has always known that her husband will be chosen for her, and she trusts that her father and uncle will select a good match.

The man they have decided upon is Sturgar, heir to the barony of Arbroan. Sturgar yearns for the chance to prove himself as a warrior, and for an heir to carry his name and to inherit his lands. He expects a union with the royal house to bring him opportunities for advancement and glory.

"The Withered Rose" is a tale of duty, honour and friendship. It is also a story of pride and folly, and explosions of violence upon brutal battlefields. These combine to drag Atela and Sturgar from a life of love and happiness to the pain of betrayal, and ultimate tragedy.

("The Withered Rose" takes place some years before the events in Marcus Pailing's other novels about the Count of Trall: "The Death of Kings", "The Demon's Consort" and "Fields of Battle". These other novels are also available as eBooks.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marcus Pailing
• Release date: Sep 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301221288

Marcus Pailing

Marcus Pailing took a degree in Ancient History and Archaeology where he specialised in the history of Alexander the Great and the Successor kingdoms. Later he took a Masters degree in Medieval History, specialising this time in 12th century historical writing and the Icelandic Sagas.He worked for a number of years in the business training industry, including a stint as a writer of e-learning courses, before training to be a teacher. He now teaches History in Leicestershire, England.He is a keen traveller, especially in the Middle East and Central Asia, where he busies himself visiting as many ancient and medieval sites as he can. In England, he thrives on visiting medieval castles and cathedrals!

Book preview

The Withered Rose

A novel of the Count of Trall

by

Marcus Pailing

Smashwords Edition

(c) Copyright, Marcus Pailing, 2012

This is a work of fiction. All characters and places in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or places, is purely coincidental.

The maps in this publication were created by the author using Campaign Cartographer, from ProFantasy Software Ltd.

Cover by Sandra Giles (for which many thanks):

Blog: www.sandragiles.blog.com

Twitter: @Sandra_Giles

Facebook: www.facebook.com/writersandragiles

All other plans and illustrations by the author.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other titles by Marcus Pailing:

The Fields of Battle Trilogy

Part 1: The Death of Kings https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/100200

Part 2: The Demon’s Consort https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/100220

Part 3: Fields of Battle https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/100460

The events described in The Withered Rose take place some years before those covered in the Fields of Battle trilogy.

For more information on the world of Gilderaen, and on future books, visit the Gilderaen page on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Gilderaen/248574438504364

The Withered Rose

A Novel of the Count of Trall

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Author’s note

About the author

Maps and plans:

The Kingdom of Hograth

Barrowgrar

Randek, capital of Barrowgrar

The defence of the March, 1252

Map: The Kingdom of Hograth

Chapter One

The month of Luothur, in the year 1239

When Theofric fell into the bramble bush, Atela laughed. One moment he was trying to demonstrate the steps of the dance he had learned that morning; the next moment he toppled backwards with a cry into the prickly bush. It was the funniest thing she had seen, funnier even than the dance he had been attempting only seconds before.

Atela rushed forward to help her cousin out of the tangle, and took the strain as Theofric struggled to his feet. There were scratches on his hands, but mercifully his face and neck were unharmed. He dusted himself down as she stood back, and for a moment he glared at her, red-faced, before he grinned and then laughed himself.

That wasn’t fair, he chortled. To laugh, I mean.

Atela reached out to pull away the last of the brambles that had stuck to his tunic, and forced her face into a look of concern. It was not I who pushed you, she replied. Then her mouth twitched again. And it was funny.

Theofric stopped laughing as well, and frowned deeply. I know. It was those steps. I fell over three times when I was learning them. Still, he went on, brightly, it isn’t as if I’ll ever have to dance them properly.

Atela gasped, feigning shock. How can you say that, Theofric? Everyone will have to dance at the celebrations. Your father the King will expect it.

I shall refuse. I am the Crown Prince, and he cannot force me.

He will, unless ... She allowed her voice to tail off, and Theofric glanced at her expectantly. Unless what?

Atela grinned. Unless you show him how you dance before the feast. Then he will not force you, for fear of the embarrassment you will cause!

Theofric roared with laughter and lunged at her; but Atela snaked out of the way of her cousin’s flailing arms and ran away. She could hear him lumbering after her, but he would never catch her. Theofric was kind and good-natured and she loved him dearly, but he was a lummox and had never, ever caught her when they played games like this, even though she wore long skirts. She might allow him to come close, but always eluded him in the end. He knew that he lacked agility, but was so even-tempered that he never became angry. He laughed even as she frustrated his efforts and he never minded her teasing.

Eventually she heard him stop, gasping for breath, and she threw a glance over her shoulder to check she was still out of his reach before allowing herself to come to a halt. She was out of breath herself, and she held her sides as she watched him slowly straighten up, red-faced and panting from exertion.

We had better get back to the lodge, she said. It is getting late, and your father will be angry if we stay out too long.

But we are together, and the guards are close by, Theofric protested. You will come to no harm with me here.

She forced herself not to laugh, however tempting it was to mock his gallantry: he had no idea how ridiculous it was to think he could protect her – he, who never caught her running, and fell into brambles when he tried to dance. It was just as well there were guards within call. To laugh now would hurt him when at other times it would not, and she would never willingly wound him.

I know, she said in answer. But your father is over-protective of me. You know that.

Theofric nodded. That’s because he loves you as a daughter, especially with your own father so far away.

He does, although he is often stern. Just like my father.

Brothers alike, Theofric said with a nod. Not like Harnic and me.

They began to walk across the fields towards the hunting lodge where the royal party was staying. The three guards, armed and dressed in mail, who had remained at a discreet distance throughout the afternoon, appeared and fell into step behind the two cousins, again keeping a respectful twenty or so yards back.

As they walked, Theofric told Atela about his new horse, and how he was training the animal with direction and help from the grooms. He was animated, hardly pausing for breath as he extolled the beast’s virtues.

Atela only half-listened, knowing that Theofric did not really expect her to answer, nor to ask questions to show her interest. He was talking because he did not yet know how to walk in companionable silence, always feeling the need to fill the air with what he thought was adult chatter. She also knew that he was more than a little in love with her, although she surmised that, thankfully, he did not realise how obvious his infatuation was, and would never dare to speak of it. After all, not only were they cousins, but while Theofric was thirteen years old, Atela would soon be nineteen.

Nineteen, but not yet married.

She was painfully aware that most young women were married off by the time they were her age, many before they were even sixteen, and by the time they were nineteen they had become mothers, sometimes two or three times. The fact that she was still unwed caused her some concern; not because she particularly relished the idea of matrimony and childbirth, but because she wondered why her uncle and her father had not yet pushed her into an advantageous union. After all, she was the daughter of the Earl of March and Prince of Albanach, and the niece of the King. She was the most eligible woman in all of Hograth, and there was not a man in the whole kingdom who would balk at the thought of taking her in wedlock. Not even were she as ugly as sin.

Ugly, she knew she was not. Indeed, while she did not think herself a great beauty, she knew she was fair enough to look upon. She had inherited her height from her father, and although her younger cousin already overtopped her by a finger she was taller than the average woman. While the male side of the family was broad and sturdy, however, she had taken her mother’s slender frame, which made her appear taller. Her breasts were small compared with those of some, most notably her aunt the Queen, whose ample bosom was said to have been what attracted the King to her in the first place – such silly gossip. But she also knew that many women envied her slim waist and long legs. Her brown hair was rather commonplace; but she had bright, wide eyes and a pretty mouth, even if her jaw was a little too heavy for her liking.

Indeed, many men would be pleased to wed her, even without her exalted status.

Theofric was still rambling on about his horse, and they were coming near to the wall that surrounded the hunting lodge. The gates were open, and Atela put her hand out to quiet her cousin’s prattling when she saw the group of people standing in the gateway, looking out towards them: her uncle the King, Ashardan the Chancellor, and Rhegus, the Earl of Mendivar. The three men looked stern, none of them showing the genial smiles that Atela and Theofric usually attracted.

Theofric stopped talking and followed Atela’s gaze, seeing the expressions on the men’s faces. That doesn’t look good, he said. But we are not very late.

The two cousins waited for their guards to join them, then the five of them walked slowly towards the gate. As they approached, the King stepped forward, his mouth curling into a grim smile. Atela, he said, holding out his hand as she came near.

What is it? she asked, suddenly fearful. Why should the King greet her before his own son, unless there was some bad news that affected her before all others? Dear Uncle, what has happened?

The King managed a warmer smile, a broad one much more like his usual demeanour, if not exactly the same. Oh, do not fear, girl. There is bad news for the kingdom; but that can wait. For you, I think, there will be some joy, and we should attend to that first. Come, see who is here.

He turned and gestured towards the gate. The other two men, Earl and Chancellor, copied the King’s smile, and stepped aside to reveal another who, until then, had remained hidden.

Hoevan! Atela gasped. Then she pulled her hand from the King’s paw and ran towards her brother, who laughed out loud and gathered her up in his arms, clasping her tight.

Dear sister, Hoevan cried, swinging her round. I had hoped to surprise you, but this welcome is beyond my expectation.

Come, children, the King called. The afternoon is drawing to a close and the air grows chilly. Let us go inside and pull all the news to pieces together. Theofric, he said to his son, then. You are a prince of Hograth, so you should lead the way. What do we do first, though?

The young prince turned to the guards and thanked them courteously for their care. The three men bowed their heads, pleased, then they bowed more deeply to the King before walking off towards their own hearth. Atela pulled herself away from her brother’s arms and ran after the men, ignoring the raised eyebrows of the nobles.

My lady? The guards were visibly embarrassed that the King’s niece should follow them.

I must thank you, too, she said, still breathless from Hoevan’s crushing embrace. In my excitement at seeing my brother I forgot my manners.

No matter, my lady, the leader of the three mumbled.

And I would ask you a favour.

The three men looked at each other, confused and even more embarrassed. The leader threw a glance towards the King, fearful of what was about to come.

Atela stepped closer. We all know that Prince Theofric is not yet the master of his limbs, she said, conspiratorially. Yet I must ask that you do not mention his accident this afternoon. It would shame him.

She half expected the men to laugh; but they met her gaze solemnly. For you, my lady, and for the Prince, you can count on our silence. The leader of the three touched a hand briefly to his heart. We would keep quiet anyway; but on your request we will make solemn vow.

Atela beamed her thanks and watched as the men walked away. It dawned on her that these men had just made a promise for her sake, not for the sake of Theofric’s dignity. Her mind flew back to her earlier reverie, and again she wondered why she should as yet be unmarried.

He thoughts on that matter fled a moment later as she heard her brother call her name. She turned and hastened back to him, so that they could enter the house together.

The fires were already lit in the hall of the lodge, and gradually their warmth banished the encroaching chill of the spring evening. The King and his guests were served with warm, spiced wine as they mingled in the hall, waiting for food to be prepared and brought. They would not sit at feast tonight, but would eat from platters carried by servants, a much less formal affair and one that allowed the company to circulate more easily.

For a while Atela was separated from her brother, who had only recently arrived and begged leave to wash away the stains of travel before rejoining the party. Reluctantly she released him, and went to pay her respects to her aunt, the Queen, who sat with the other ladies at one end of the hall. Theofric was already there, as was his younger brother Harnic, along with the other children of the gathered nobility.

You are clearly pleased to see Hoevan, Queen Theofia observed. It must be at least a year since he was last in Hograth.

Yes, my lady, Atela replied, still beaming with pleasure at seeing her brother again. More than a year, in fact.

Theofia smiled. When he returns you must go to him, for I think the news he brings for the King will concern you as well. I do not believe that women should be excluded from the affairs of men just because of their sex, as you know.

Yet you do not concern yourself with those affairs, my lady, said one of the others – Gulvia, the Countess of Erinvar. Theofia and Gulvia were the same age, and had been friends since childhood.

Theofia laughed. Oh, I do, Gulvia. Only, I concern myself where my advice will be listened to and not ignored ... in the bedchamber.

The ladies laughed. The boys flushed and made noises of disgust, and took the opportunity to flee the women’s company.

That got rid of them, chuckled Theofia, a wicked glint in her eye. Now, Atela, sit here while we embarrass young Egitha here with questions about her recent marriage.

The Queen indicated a young woman who sat quietly, somewhat overawed by the noble company in which she found herself. Egitha, like Atela, was eighteen, and less than a month before had been married to the Trallian lord, Grandalm, one of the Count of Trall’s followers. Grandalm was himself related to the King, and therefore to Atela as well; but Egitha had rarely set foot outside Trall and this was her first visit to the court.

Don’t worry, dear, Theofia said to the Trallian girl, patting her hand. We won’t pry too much. But I would like to hear about your wedding. I told the King that he should invite Grandalm to wed you at court, but Grandalm would have none of it. He insisted that, as he is a Trallian, he would get married nowhere else.

Egitha bowed her head. In truth, my lady, I begged my husband for a Trallian wedding. It made me feel better to be in a place I know.

Very wise, put in Avria, the Countess of Revenar. Too often, women are ripped from their surroundings and thrust into a strange place, then straight into the unfamiliar territory of marriage. That is something to remember, Atela, when your time comes. At least you will be able to guarantee a wedding at court, so that you begin married life in a familiar place.

That is true, the Queen interjected, rather quickly; but let us get back to Egitha. So, my dear, tell us about your nuptials. Are there any marriage customs on Trall that differ from those we follow here in Hograth?

Gradually the young Trallian was drawn to talk, and as she grew more confident she became more animated, losing her previous inhibitions. Atela listened attentively, enjoying the conversation, yet she was also aware of the looks the Queen kept throwing her way. She wondered at her aunt’s attentions, but soon forgot them when she saw her brother re-enter the hall, freshly cleaned and re-clothed.

Go to your brother, Theofia said quietly, careful not to interrupt the flow of her ladies’ conversation. We will talk again later.

Atela leaped up and gave the ladies a quick curtsey; then she hurried over to where the men were gathered to welcome Hoevan into their midst.

King Theofric, the third of his name, put his arm around Atela’s shoulder, and drew her close. Here is my niece, Atela, he said to the assembled men. I think you know most of these gentlemen, my dear, save perhaps young Tordold, here, who has come with the Count of Trall. And this is Egrevan Mardenath, come from Albanach with your brother. Now, gentlemen, we are all pleased to see my nephew Hoevan; but he does bring grave news that you should all hear.

It is also the reason why my father could not come, Hoevan said, looking round at the company. Only just eighteen, and so younger than Atela, he was a confident young man, despite the presence of so many who were older and more experienced than he. I have been charged to bring the King the news that Benedic of Ghylliar has begun making attacks on Albanach again. My father could not leave at such a time, as you can imagine.

King Theofric tightened his hold on Atela’s shoulders, reacting to the way she tensed at the news. Your father will be fine, he said gently. My brother has been Prince of Albanach for a long time, and has faced Ghyllian incursions before. He will deal with it as he always does, sensibly and with caution.

Yet not yielding, Hoevan interjected hotly. Theofric smiled and nodded agreement, immediately calming his nephew’s ardour.

What forces does Benedic array against Roenvald? asked Gerdrion, the Earl of Revenar.

Strong, my lord, was Hoevan’s reply.

Too strong for Roenvald to counter?

Hoevan spread his hands and shrugged. My father is a seasoned warrior.

Yet Albanach would not stand against the whole might of Ghylliar, put in Ashardan, the Chancellor. Should Hograth send a force into the south of Ghylliar, to persuade Benedic to reconsider?

My thoughts exactly, said the King. I would like your counsel, my lords. Hoevan can tell us what he knows, and young Egrevan here; but together we must decide whether to take action in Roenvald’s support.

Does Roenvald request aid? asked the Earl of Revenar.

No, he does not, Hoevan responded, dropping his eyes. Listening and watching, it seemed to Atela that her brother had lost a little of his youthful vigour.

I thought he would not, the Earl of Revenar said with a smile. I have been Roenvald’s friend for many years and I know that pride is his weakness. He would not seek assistance even were he to stand alone in the middle of the Ghyllian army.

King Theofric stroked his beard. You are right, Gerdrion. Pride has been the downfall of many, and is a failing in my family. Do not protest, Hoevan, for it is true. One piece of advice all of us here would give you, is never to shrink from asking for help. Do not let pride and foolish bravery lead you to an early death. Always remember that.

Terren, the Count of Trall, now spoke up. Wise words, young Hoevan. Perhaps we should ask Egrevan for his view. He will inherit an earldom in Albanach, and is not related to the King. Tell us, Egrevan, what your assessment of the situation is.

Atela tore her eyes away from her brother, and looked closely at the Albanachan lordling. Egrevan Mardenath was also young, of an age either with Hoevan or herself. Before speaking he looked at her, and she felt a slight burning in her cheeks, and increased beating in her heart, as their eyes met. He was not especially tall, perhaps three or four inches taller than she; but he was broad-shouldered and slim hipped, well-formed and athletic. His eyes were a deep blue, and they seemed to burn into her as he briefly smiled, ruefully.

Quite simply, sire, I think the Prince should ask for your aid. At the moment the Ghyllians are merely probing, but there are signs that King Benedic is building up his forces. For the moment we can hold them, push them out of Albanach, even. I fear, however, that Benedic will throw all his weight at us, and then we will not be able to prevent great slaughter and destruction.

Even to the loss of Albanach? asked the Count of Trall softly.

Egrevan looked into Atela’s eyes again, and held her gaze as he replied with an equally soft Yes.

Then we will act, the King said, decisively. Ashardan, we will send a message to Ardenus of Northmarch. He is to gather forces to ride into southern Ghylliar. Let Benedic look to his rear, and learn not to threaten my brother in Albanach.

I will raise levies to send to Ardenus, said the Earl of Mendivar. Mendivar is close enough to provide Ardenus with troops quickly. I shall leave for my lands tomorrow, if you wish?

No need to leave immediately, Rhegus, Theofric said. I wish you to remain here for a few days, on a matter of importance. Send messages to your levy, though. I thank you for your aid.

Rhegus bowed his head.

Theofric hugged Atela again. See, child, he said brightly. Your father will be fine. He will hold Albanach with his usual skill, and my good lords will give Benedic pause for thought, to relieve the pressure he puts on Albanach.

Atela smiled up at the King, her beloved uncle. When she lowered her gaze she found it drawn to Egrevan Mardenath. He was still looking at her, and their eyes locked once more.

Egrevan smiled, and her heart beat faster.

Shortly afterwards the food came, borne into the hall on platters. All the meat was cut or sliced into small pieces to allow for delicate eating; and there were wafers, too, filled with cheese or vegetables to provide variety. More servants roamed the hall with trays carrying cups of spiced wine, or jugs to refill empty goblets.

Atela stayed with Hoevan and Egrevan Mardenath, once the King’s impromptu war council split up, and she found herself flushing as the Albanachan lordling draped a napkin over her left forearm. Permit me, my lady, he said in a low voice as he arranged the linen cloth, fussing with it more than was necessary.

That’s Egrevan, laughed Hoevan. He cannot resist gallantry, even with so small a task.

Well, I am grateful, she retorted, bobbing a curtsey to the Albanachan. And I thank you.

Hoevan grabbed a wafer from a passing tray. You must not worry about our father, Atela. He will be all right, I promise you.

Do you really mean it? You aren’t saying that just to calm me?

It was Egrevan who answered her. Your brother might bluster, my lady, but perhaps I can reassure you. The Prince is a seasoned warrior, and he will do all that is necessary to keep Albanach safe. He will not put himself in needless danger, yet will not risk a single Albanachan field or tree if he can help it. With Hograth’s aid, this trouble will be over before you know it.

He smiled, a genuine smile and not one of false comfort, and she felt a warmth flow through her body that was not caused by the spiced wine.

Tell me, Egrevan continued, how long is it since you were in Albanach? I do not remember you, although I am sure I should.

Hoevan laughed, and Atela threw her brother a fierce look before turning back to Egrevan with a placid – or so she hoped – expression. I left when I was little more than ten. My father wanted me to be brought up in the King’s household. I have returned to Albanach only three times since, but my last visit was four years ago. I was a mere girl.

Hardly now, breathed Egrevan, and Atela blushed. Perhaps it was just as well that Hoevan was distracted at that moment by a passing platter of beef.

And how has life been in Hograth? the Albanachan continued, once Hoevan’s attention wandered back. Much better than provincial Albanach, I’d wager.

Oh, but I always loved being there, she found herself saying, springing to the defence of a place she had hardly seen for eight years. Although I have not been there for so long, I still remember clearly the beauty of the northern hills, near Nastora. They are so wild and rugged, but so much more glorious for that. I used to dream of running there, imagining that I would keep it up all day.

Hoevan scoffed, but Egrevan merely flashed a disdainful look at his friend before looking back at Atela. Apart from that moment, he had never taken his eyes from hers – a fact that she only realised when he broke their contact for that one second.

My own home, Mardenath, is in those northern hills, close to the Nastoran Moors. I do not run there, but I like nothing more than to ride across the ridges, early in the morning. I stop to watch the sun rise, when it bathes the hilltops with light, while the valleys trap the last vestiges of the night. It is the most beautiful sight I know. The next time you are in Albanach, after the current troubles, I shall take you up there, to show you its full glory.

Atela quickly took a sip of wine to cover her discomfort. It was a pleasant discomfort. How quickly she had fallen under the spell of this young man, so well-made and well-spoken, with an intent gaze that entrapped her so completely. She sipped some more, trying to think of something to say in response; but a moment later the spell was broken by her meddling brother.

Egrevan, Hoevan said, grabbing his friend’s arm. There is Somerdo. Only a year older than we are, and just made Earl of Harinvar. Let us go and congratulate him.

Hoevan set off, pulling Egrevan along. We will speak again later, sister, he shot at Atela, over his shoulder.

Egrevan rolled his eyes, and gave a rueful smile. Until later, my lady, he said softly. Then he was gone, too, tugged away by his friend.

Atela sighed, looking after the Albanachan wistfully. She watched his broad shoulders as the two young men pushed through the crowd, sinuously weaving their way past the two young sons of the Earl of Revenar. Hoevan clasped the new Earl of Harinvar by the hand and introduced him to Egrevan. As the two nobles greeted each other, Egrevan turned his head and looked straight at her, meeting her eyes once more, before courtesy forced him to give his full attention to the Earl.

Lady Atela?

Atela turned and found herself looking down at a girl who stood patiently at her side. She was a pretty girl with dark hair and wide green eyes. She held out a napkin full of wafers.

I saw you talking to your brother and the other man, the girl said. All the time your brother was eating, but neither of them offered you any food. So I brought you some in case you were hungry.

Oh, you darling girl, Atela said, gratefully taking a proffered piece of pastry. Only now did she feel a pang of hunger, and she realised the girl was right: she had been so engrossed – enraptured – by Egrevan Mardenath, that she had not once thought about food.

She took a bite and enjoyed the warmth that flooded her mouth, replacing the warmth that had previously coursed through her under the Albanachan’s stare. You are so kind. What is your name?

I am also Atela, the girl answered with a bright smile. Atela Ashardan, of Beresbridge. My uncle is the Chancellor.

"Then, Atela, let us go and sit in that window seat and you can tell me about