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

them, joking before the enemy’s gates as though they were having a picnic. But what else was there to do? They might as well have been alone. Might indeed be alone, if Arvid’s supposition were right. Behind them, their own men waited. And from them, eventually, a herald was produced. Whatever they’d all expected, it wasn’t this; and the herald looked equally confused.
    He was given his instructions and, minutes later, began his lonely journey across the bridge.
    Hart had been fully prepared for a number of contingencies. Had spent sleepless night after sleepless night in a fury of self-recrimination for not having prepared for more. Even though doing so had been impossible. He’d formed any number of plans in his mind and discarded them, the best plan so far being one that he’d only half formed and hadn’t even shared with Arvid.
    But the further he’d come, the less reality had conformed to his expectations.
    And the more concerned he’d become.
    There should have been patrols, or at least scouts. Just as a matter of course. Hart would have sent them out on a regular basis, in his enemy’s shoes, so as not to become a sitting duck in his own hall. But even without some sort of intelligence gathering program in place, these dimwits should have known that a thousand men were encroaching on their position. A thousand men were hard to hide.
    Hart had expected them, for days now and certainly all night last night, to strike first: to fire the supply carts, to sow chaos. Anything to weaken them before they reached House Salm. To reduce their threat, even if only by reducing their morale.
    And, arriving literally on his enemy’s doorstep, he’d expected a hail of arrows.
    He hadn’t come under a flag of truce; he hadn’t given the earl or any of his men any reason to believe that parley was even an option.
    The herald stopped, raised his horn and blew. Then he spoke. “In the name of King Piers, by the grace of the Gods, of Morven, Weryon, and the Southern Isles, defender of justice, Lord Hart of Caer Addanc, brother to the king and with the backing of the king’s army, declares that this house and lands are forfeit for treason. He further demands that the gate be opened so those within can face justice. The king is merciful. Long live the king!”
    Hart, for his part, stared straight ahead. Looking, he knew, every inch the Viper of which so many Southrons had been warned. Arvid, beside him, did the same. The herald’s address had been impressive. He’d conjured it up, as they all did, from his own imagination. Taking the basic facts and weaving them into something quite poetic.
    Hart wasn’t a knight. And he wasn’t a lord. Yet. Save by virtue of his connection to the king, through Isla. Which afforded him that style. But Southrons needed titles. Those inside might be drinking their own urine for survival and sharing a single crust of bread between them, but they’d never surrender to a man without one. Even if they wanted to. They’d sit about debating the cost to their collective honor until they’d literally expired in their chairs.
    “Lord Hart,” the herald continued, “because he is equally as beneficent, offers the chance to parley. Whoever emerges under the white flag, and approaches the parley tent, shall not be harmed.”
    Nothing.
    The parley tent was Hart’s tent, a simple thing constructed from wooden poles and white canvas.
    There was still no response of any kind from the castle, for some time, until finally a pair of heads appeared, above the gate. Hart couldn’t hear what they were saying but, from their body language, they appeared to be fighting. With each other. Gods. One cuffed his fellow on the side of the head and the other must have kneed him in the groin in retribution, for he suddenly bent double.
    Two men.
    No guards.
    This was surreal.
    One of them finally seemed to gain the upper hand, and began shouting. “We would speak with Lord Hart, and hear these words from