The Black Prince: Part II by P. J. Fox

Hart were some sort of wretched gong pit farmer and had the odor to match his position. Although, Hart corrected himself, the average gong pit farmer likely found more welcome.
    “I am Hugh Bailleul.”
    “Congratulations.”
    “I am the chamberlain of this house.”
    What a large staff this house had. The chamberlain was the castellan’s assistant, responsible for overseeing both those activities conducted within the great hall and the castellan’s personal finances. In short, he held a purse and occasionally planned feasts. A completely unnecessary position; any castellan who couldn’t keep track of his own funds should hardly be considered qualified to manage those of an entire castle. But the more retainers the better, at least according to Southron sensibilities. How would anyone know they were rich, this earl and his family, if they didn’t have a chamberlain? And an almoner and a falconer and a glazier and ten ewerers besides?
    No wonder the kingdom was going to shit.
    “You’re going to kill us all.” He sounded…not worried. Just disgusted.
    “Yes.”
    “There are children within the walls. And unlike you, plague makes no promises.”
    So he was pompous, but brave.
    “I don’t trust you. I doubt that you trust me. But with you there is at least hope.”
    “Have you a child?”
    “No. I am unmarried.”
    Hart leaned back in his chair. “So tell me, Hugh Bailleul the chamberlain, what is it that you propose to do.”
    And what was in this for him, Hart wondered. He had no kin to protect. Surely he wasn’t a king’s man at heart, what with his loathing for commoners. Of which he was one. Although yeoman and serfs tended to see themselves as worlds apart, without realizing that to their overlords they were all the same. One would think that having little would bring people together, encourage them to share; instead, fear of having even less drove them apart.
    “I propose to let you in.”
    “In exchange for?”
    “In exchange for you not pitching that body over the wall.”
    Hart had expected a request for a fat purse, or a title. Both of which might still come. As a child, when his father had still paid for tutors, he’d read about a famous commander who’d been presented with just such a situation. The man had come to him, offering information. For the good of his people, he’d claimed. His information had been sound, his motives apparently pure. Or, as pure as they could be, considering. The commander had executed him, regardless. Because, as he’d explained before he swung the sword,
if you’d betray your own brothers, then you’d betray me
.
    It was true, what he’d told Rudolph: wars were not fought for honor.
    “Then do so,” Hart said, rising. “Now.”



TWELVE
    T he camp fires still burned, abandoned.
    They moved in silence, in a column: Hart and a hand-picked group of men.
    Small. Easily maneuverable. Harder to detect. The others waited at the ready, for Hart’s signal. Not cooking—or dying—around their fires as the enemy believed but with swords drawn. They were led by Arvid. At Hart’s insistence. Arvid had been furious at being, as he put it, left with the girls and the milksops but someone had to be the leader if Hart fell. He trusted Arvid.
    And there was no one else.
    The chamberlain led them all, Hart’s sword at his back. The very moment even the smallest sound left his mouth, Hart would run him through. Even though the unfortunate man might just be groaning, or sighing. Or crying out in dismay as he tripped over something. It didn’t matter. Hart couldn’t take the risk that he’d call out. Or that, regardless of his true intent, the noise would attract attention. He’d threatened his own men with the loss of an ear, a punishment that he had every intention of delivering. All that was needed was for one single guard to look down.
    One dozen of them. Vulnerable, with no place to find cover. Subterfuge was impossible; they were only hiding by not being