Read Online The Black Prince: Part II by P. J. Fox - Free Book Online

“The church forbids killing. The king’s writ forbids killing. So all murderers are punished, by the church and by the king, unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.”
    “You might be growing up, after all. But both church—at least, some in the church—and king support us now because we’re fighting on the side of right. Maeve is a usurper, and one who would stop at nothing to achieve her own ends. Nothing. She hurts children, Rudolph. This is not a woman who can be allowed to live, much less to thrive. Putting her down should be regarded by you, and by all rational men, as no different than putting down a rabid dog. Otherwise, as long as she roams this earth, she will spread pestilence.”
    But Rudolph only shook his head again. “But we aren’t proposing hand to hand combat with Maeve. Only those weak, or perhaps desperate enough to suffer in her stead. Fighting not for her honor but for whatever inducements she’s promised.” There was a long pause, filled only with the noises of the night. Hart waited. How, in a few short weeks, Rudolph had changed. Even though he was still a child, in so many ways. As Hart had thought earlier. He was no longer the child he’d once been, but a child on the cusp of something greater.
    Or lesser.
    “War doesn’t determine who is right, Hart. Only who is left.”



EIGHT
    T he morning had dawned crisp and clear. The rain had stopped. They’d had an easy march over the crest of the hill and down to House Salm, a square castle enclosed by a square moat.
    The natural discharge from the canyon had been diverted into what looked, with its right angles, like nothing so much as an overgrown garden pond. The scout had been right about its distance from the walls, although the water stretched for closer to ten paces in either direction. Ten paces, seventy-five hands. The water lapped against dressed stone, rather than mud.
    What kept the moat filled, Hart guessed, was its depth and the fact that the enclosure acted like a dam. A man couldn’t wade. Even the tallest man would have to swim. He wondered where the downstream outlet, or outlets were. And supposed he’d find out. Eventually.
    One way or another.
    Rising from the water were walls cut from the same stone as those supporting the moat. A pale yellowish color, unlike the leaden gray that so characterized Barghast. Round towers stood sentinel at each of the four corners, with square towers bisecting the walls between. The tops of the towers, and the walls, were crenellated. A glorious place for archers, this House Salm.
    The main gate was flanked by the two most impressive towers of them all, their decoration simple but intimidating. Here the crenellations were buttressed into overhangs, giving the defenders excellent access to whomever might come over the bridge. There was a garrison in those gatehouses, he knew. Watching them. There should have been members of that garrison on the wall between the towers, guarding the gate. But there wasn’t. Hart saw no one.
    “Brother.” Arvid spoke quietly, his words for Hart alone. “Are they all dead of plague?”
    Hart wondered.
    The first part of the bridge was wood. Which was unfortunate. Wood, however lovingly crafted into whatever shape, burned. Then there was a sort of small island, perfectly round, from which a jetty projected. To that jetty, the drawbridge presumably connected. When it was down.
    No pennants flew.
    “We have to send a herald.”
    “I’ll go.”
    Hart glanced at Rudolph. “No.”
    “But I can—”
    “You can. Your horse can. But I’ll not see you feathered just yet. You’re worth more to me than a horse or, indeed, one of these pissing fool Southrons. And you’re certainly worth more to my sister.”
    “But.” Rudolph’s voice was timid. “I’m a Southron.”
    Arvid clapped him on the back, hard enough to send him sprawling. “Don’t insult yourself, little girl-man.”
    It seemed so strange that they were, the three of