Page 13 of The Maiden

“Xante,” someone bellowed down, “is this our new king?”

The laughter was uproarious and it rang in Rowan’s ears as he walked toward the gate. Lora was right. He should have challenged a couple of men to a fight the first day and established who was in charge.

He stood before the gate and looked at it. It looked to be ancient, covered with rust and thorny vines. He pulled away a vine, thorns tearing his hands and making his palms bleed, and studied the old lock. It was a solid piece of iron with no sign of a weak joint. As far as he could tell, the battering ram hadn’t moved the lock.

“This blond Englishman thinks he can open the gate?” a man taunted.

“Didn’t someone tell him that only a Lanconian could open it?”

The crowd laughed derisively.

“I am Lanconian,” Rowan whispered, his eyes on the gate. “I am more Lanconian than they will ever know. God, help me. I beg You. Help me.”

He put his hands on the gate, both bloody palms touching the rusty surface, and leaned forward to get a closer look at the thick piece of iron holding the gate shut.

Beneath his palms, he felt the gates tremble.

“Open!” he whispered. “Open for your Lanconian king.”

Rust trickled down from the top, sprinkling his face and hair. “Yes!” he said, his eyes closed as he directed all of his energy into his palms. “I am your king. I command you to open.”

“Look!” screamed someone behind him. “The gate moves!”

The crowd and the guards on the wall quietened as the ancient gate began to creak. It seemed to shudder like something alive.

There was complete silence, even the animals were still, as the old iron lock fell at Rowan’s feet. He pushed the left gate back a couple of feet and the ancient hinges cried out in protest.

Rowan turned to his own men. “Now bring the baggage wagons through,” he said, and suddenly felt very, very tired.

But no one moved. The English were looking at the Lanconians and the Lanconians, hundreds of them, both peasants and guardsmen, were staring at Rowan with eyes filled with wonder.

“What’s wrong now?” Rowan bellowed up at Xante. “I opened the gate for you, now use it.”

Still no one moved. Montgomery whispered, “What’s wrong with them?”

Xante, as if he were walking in his sleep, very slowly dismounted his horse. His movements amid the absolute stillness seemed dramatic and of great significance. Rowan watched him, wondering what this man planned now to make his contempt known.

To Rowan’s utter astonishment, Xante moved to stand in front of him, dropped to his knees, bowed his head, and said, “Long live Prince Rowan.”

Rowan looked over his head to Lora, who still sat on her horse. Lora looked as bewildered as Rowan felt.

“Long live Prince Rowan,” someone else said, then another, and soon the chant became a shout.

Watelin, Rowan’s knight, a most sensible man, came forward. “Shall we get the wagons through, sire, before the fools decide you’re a demon instead of a god?”

Rowan laughed, but before he could answer, Xante was on his feet, glaring at Watelin.

“He is our prince,” Xante said, “our Lanconian prince. We will take his wagons through.” Xante turned and started bellowing orders to the guardsmen and peasants alike.

Rowan shrugged and mounted his horse as he smiled at Lora. “It seems that opening a rusty old gate was the right thing to do. Shall we enter our kingdom, dear sister?”

“Princess sister, if you don’t mind,” Lora said, laughing.

Inside the walls, men and women of the guard stood quietly with their heads bowed as Rowan and Lora passed them. Rowan searched each face, hoping for a sight of Jura, but she was nowhere to be seen.

At the front of the old stone fortress, Rowan helped Lora dismount. “Shall we go to meet our father?” he asked, and Lora nodded.

Chapter Four