Last Life

Book 7: Chapter 23

Bergonia

The Western Foothills

The Valley of Hills

Prince Philippe’s army camp

PRINCE PHILIPPE SAT ON HIS portable campaign throne, trying very hard to look like he was paying careful attention to what a newly-arrived intelligence officer was reporting to him. The main tent was crowded with people; the Prince hated his hard, uncomfortable campaign throne; and the officer, yet another Count or baron from either the entourage of Duke de Gondy or his uncle, was boring.

The council of war, which the Prince had called after receiving word of the Golden Lion’s movements, was taking place in a clearing near some old vineyards and was already well into its second hour. For Prince Philippe, it was pure torture.

To be honest, he still didn’t really understand why his uncle had dragged him out to the middle of nowhere and forced him to submit to the boredom of life on campaign. If only he could have stayed behind in the capital! He knew that his beloved tigress Lila had probably given birth by that point. The healer in charge of the Prince’s pets assured His Highness that there were two babies in her belly. Instead of taking care of his baby tigers, however, Philippe was being forced to sit on his damnable chair and listen to yet another bunch of loudmouths deliver their reports.

On a number of occasions, the Prince had come very close to announcing that he was tired of this war and that he intended to return to Herouxville. Every time, however, Uncle Claude, the Duke de Bauffremont, would always swoop in and explain that this campaign (which would hopefully end in a resounding victory for Vestonian arms) would cement his position in the succession.

To be honest, the Prince didn’t really care about the throne at all. In fact, he had once admitted this to his uncle quite openly, but the Duke had replied that if Philippe DIDN’T become King, one of his brothers would become King instead. Most likely, that would mean Prince Philippe would end up being murdered shortly after the coronation.

The Prince didn’t want to die, of course, and if surviving meant taking his father’s place, he was willing to succeed to the throne — especially since his uncle had promised to handle the tedious business of actually running the country. Philippe would merely have to be present at the occasional reception and sign certain documents and decrees in public. And he could spend the rest of his time on his menagerie, which his uncle had promised to enlarge.

As he remembered his father and brothers, Philippe grew even more sad than before. Early in childhood, he had realized that his family was significantly different from other, normal families.

His father had once adored his eldest son, but at a certain point his love for the boy had suddenly cooled. Apparently, it was all because Philippe had always been a rather sickly and quiet boy. As a consequence, he never grew into the great swordsman and soldier that his father had been hoping for. Furthermore, it soon turned out that Philippe really wasn’t gifted as a student either. He had a very hard time remembering things, even just after reading them. He couldn’t really articulate his own thoughts clearly, and he tried to avoid his father’s attention (and even his presence) as much as he possibly could.

In the end, the King and Queen both seemed to forget all about their eldest son’s existence as soon as Heinrich was born. The closest people in Prince Philippe’s life were his wet nurse and his mother’s brother, Uncle Claude, who had always showered the elder Prince with warmth and attention. Basically, the Duke de Bauffremont was a surrogate father to Philippe. It was he who gave the boy his first little ginger-haired beagle puppy. Then came a black kitten, a parrot, a hedgehog, and a fawn.

As time went on, Prince Philippe’s collection of pets grew and grew, thanks to his uncle. The Duke encouraged his favorite nephew’s interest in animals, even going so far as to have a large menagerie built for him. This was where the little Prince ended up spending most of his time.

Sometimes, Philippe would be required to appear at court, and something unpleasant or horrible would always happen whenever he did. He never established much of a relationship with his brothers. He managed to coexist with Louis without much conflict, but Heinrich — his father’s favorite until Bastien was born — frequently dished out beatings and mockery to his meek, unassuming elder brother.

The worst times, however, began when his youngest brother Bastien began to grow up. Everyone at court would always crow about the little Prince being a carbon copy of his father. More than that, he seemed to grow by the hour, rather than by the day. By the age of twelve, Prince Bastien looked like an 18-year-old.

He was an outstanding swordsman and rider. From earliest childhood, he never missed a single royal hunt. Soon enough, he had all his elder brothers under his thumb, including even Heinrich. His father couldn’t help being overjoyed with the way his youngest son had turned out.

Deep down, however, Prince Bastien was a monster. He was cruel and vicious. On several occasions, he and his friends broke into Philippe’s menagerie and began to slaughter. Philippe would never forget how his younger brother had burned his gray monkey Lolo alive — a pet that his uncle had bought from merchants all the way from the southern continent.

Bastien thought that all such human-like animals were freaks, who should be killed and burned. That was the first time Philippe had ever tried to stand up to his brother. But of course the latter had knocked Philippe down with ease. Then, as he pressed the dirty sole of his boot down onto his brother’s throat, he hissed that as soon as he became King, all his brothers would be headed straight for the block.

For the rest of his life, Philippe remembered the bloody fire burning in his brother’s eyes. That night, as Bastien and his vassal hangers-on laughed, Philippe wet himself as he lay powerless in the mud. When his uncle learned about what had happened, he promised that he would protect Philippe. Alas, his brother returned to visit on more than one occasion after that. And so things continued until one fine day when the Kingdom was rocked by the news that the King’s youngest son had been killed. It need hardly be said that while Vestonia was in mourning, Philippe secretly rejoiced over his sudden and unexpected liberation from the monstrous brother he had so hated.

Many things changed in the Kingdom after Bastien’s death. The King turned his attention entirely to Adèle, whose personality was very similar to that of her late mother. The little Princess, by the way, was also the only member of the family with whom Philippe had anything approaching a normal relationship. At the very least, she — like their uncle — loved animals as much as he did, and was always happy to spend time in his menagerie with him. True, they hadn’t seen much of each other in recent times. According to Uncle Claude, the only REAL family Philippe had was his dear old uncle.

“Monsieur!” The Duke de Gondy’s strident voice suddenly tore the Prince out of his reminiscing. “What do you think about this?”

Philippe turned his head to see who his future father-in-law was talking to. Who, speaking of which, was yet another millstone around poor Philippe’s neck! The King, who seemed to have utterly forgotten about his eldest son’s existence, had suddenly decided to marry him to Blanca de Gondy. A cold, cunning Marchioness who hated animals. Philippe remembered seeing her kick his little spotted kitten once, when she thought nobody was looking. Just because Kiki had been trying to play with the bow on her dress.

A cruel, evil woman! What, Philippe wondered, did Louis even see in her anyway? His brother had come to visit him prior to departing for the north. He had asked Philippe to break off his engagement with Blanca. Philippe, of course, would have been only too happy to do just that... Also, his uncle had promised to make this particular problem go away. After all, Philippe’s ACTUAL future bride was waiting for him in Astland. A distant cousin, the Marchioness von Wettin. A very cute, very kind young woman. Who, most importantly, loved animals every bit as much as he did.

It turned out that the Duke was talking to the Count de Poitiers. The old man had been a Marshal during the time of Philippe’s grandfather, and he was the only person whose opinion both the Duke de Bauffremont and the Duke de Gondy would genuinely listen to. To the Prince, it seemed likely that without the old Count de Poitiers, their army would have split in two long ago. True, his uncle maintained that it was Philippe’s own presence that kept the fractious force together. Which, incidentally, was why his return to the capital would be such a bad idea. Especially at a time when the Golden Lion’s army was camped less than a mile away from their own.

“The Atalians are in an advantageous position.” The former Marshal’s voice was heavy and rough. “Archers on the flanks, stakes, ditches — it all gives me the impression that the Golden Lion is taking a leaf from the Margrave de Valier’s book. Whether that’s true or not, that’s exactly how the Margrave destroyed two Atalian cavalry armies.”

A flurry of several dozen squabbling voices erupted inside the tent.

“And given that’s the case, what do you suggest we do?!” The Duke de Bauffremont shouted over the noise.

“Marshal di Lorenzo already knows he doesn’t have enough people to withstand a combined assault by two armies,” the Count de Poitiers continued. “I don’t think I’m wrong in assuming that he was leading his army out via the southern track. He simply didn’t make it in time. We beat him to it. It’s immediately obvious that his men have just started digging in.”

“So the Golden Lion is running back to his den with his tail between his legs?!” Someone shouted with joy, to immediate cheers and laughter from the other commanders.

Even Philippe’s uncle and the Duke de Gondy seemed to agree on this point. They were both smiling.

“Imagine how much loot he must be trying to take with him!” Someone else shouted, whereupon the tent once again filled with roars of approval.

“Ha ha! But we won’t let the mangy old cat get away that easily!”

Philippe looked around at the happy faces of his nobles and forced himself to smile, although in reality he couldn’t have cared less about any amount of loot. He just wanted it all to be over as quickly as possible, so he could get back home to Herouxville.

“Count!” The Duke de Bauffremont shouted down the hubbub once again. “Your suggestions?”

The Count de Poitiers bit down on his thin, aged lips for a moment as he looked grimly around the room from beneath his bushy eyebrows. The old warrior clearly didn’t share the general mindset, and he definitely didn’t seem to see any reason for the mirthful atmosphere at all. He reminded Philippe of an old, experienced wolf, staring out at the younger members of its pack as they threw caution to the wind in the close proximity of prey.

“Marshal di Lorenzo is no simple opponent,” he said. “I suggest we block his path down the southern track and wait for the Margrave de Valier’s army to join us. The Golden Lion is very short on provisions. By the time our second army arrives, his legionaries will be weakened by hunger and fear.”

“We’ve got heavy cavalry!” One of the young barons shouted back. “The best riders from all across Vestonia! And the Atalians have nothing but infantry!”

Warlike shouts erupted on all sides.

“We’ll crush them!”

“Smash them!”

“Wait for the Atalians to starve to death? I mean, it’s a disgrace!”

“Are we really incapable of handling a wounded lion without the help of some bastard and his rabble?!”

As soon as the first wave of indignation died down, the Duke de Gondy turned to the Count de Poitiers.

“As you can see, Monsieur, none of us like the idea of waiting,” he said with a condescending smile on his face. “A brilliant victory — THAT’S what we came here for!”

The Duke’s conclusion was met with roars of agreement.

“Furthermore, I don’t much like the idea of waiting for that jumped-up Margrave’s help,” added the Duke de Bauffremont. “Especially since he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to reach us. Apparently there’s nobody around to light a fire under him.”

At that, Prince Philippe wanted to roll his eyes and lean back on his throne. This wasn’t the first time his uncle had dropped a not-so-subtle hint to the Duke de Gondy that his son, who had been sent to join the Margrave de Valier, wasn’t doing a very good job with his assigned task. This would invariably provoke the Duke de Gondy to start defending his son and reminding Philippe’s uncle that the Margrave happened to be the Duke de Bauffremont’s protege.

On this occasion, however, the growing tension was abruptly defused by the Count de Poitiers.

“Marshal di Lorenzo’s positions are defended by forest on one side and vineyards on the other,” he said. “Besides, his legionaries are throwing up defensive fortifications as we speak.”

“Let me see if I understand you correctly, Monsieur,” snickered the Duke de Gondy. “You mean to say that our cavalry is powerless against the Golden Lion’s army?”

Laughter and muffled comments rippled around the council. Even Philippe could tell that people were trying to make the Count out to be a doddering old fool who had outlived his senses.

“No. You misunderstand me,” the former Marshal shook his head. “I never said that our cavalry would be powerless. It will most definitely reach our enemy’s positions... But at what cost? Believe me, Monsieurs. I’ve seen many battles in my time. Including some of the ones your grandfathers told you about. I watched the Silver General die at the Battle of Darkcliff, and I fought off the Copper Horde as it tried to cross the Old Channel. I know what I’m talking about! By this time tomorrow, most of you present here will either be severely wounded, dead on the field, or sitting in captivity with the enemy. The best knights in Vestonia will fall if we attempt to reach the Atalian legionaries like this. That, Monsieurs, is the price you’re going to pay.”

The old Count passed his heavy gaze around the now-silent assembly of nobles. The bluntness and bleakness of his reply had taken the wind out of their sails. Even Prince Philippe, who wanted nothing more than to leave the tent as quickly as possible, could feel goosebumps crawling down his spine as the old Marshal spoke.

“How would you proceed if you were here facing Marshal di Lorenzo one-on-one?” The Duke de Bauffremont asked calmly.

“I would order most of the heavy cavalry to dismount and take forward positions in two centrally-placed battalions,” replied the Count de Poitiers. “The higher quality of their armor and weapons will enable them to withstand an attack by the Atalian legionaries. I’d split the other part of my cavalry into two small battalions and send them to attack the enemy’s archers. They’d be able to destroy them easily, then turn the Golden Lion’s flanks and attack him from behind. Meanwhile, the rest of our infantry could move into the positions over the bodies of the Atalian archers and press the enemy’s battalions from the flanks. Only if we do this would I be willing to guarantee victory over Marshal di Lorenzo’s legions. Otherwise, our cavalry will suffer the same fate that befell first the Marquis di Spinola and then his father.”

The longer the old Marshal spoke, the more hostile the murmuring in the tent became. The idea of the knights dismounting to fight was decidedly not one that appealed to the nobles. Such a tactic would be disgraceful for the knights — in tactical terms, the only language they spoke was that of the hell-for-leather cavalry charge.

The Dukes de Bauffremont and de Gondy exchanged glances. This happened from time to time. The two men seemed to understand each other without words. Philippe’s uncle glanced at him and nodded. The Prince nodded back immediately.

“His Highness thanks you for your counsel, Monsieur,” the Duke de Bauffremont said as he turned to address the Count. “He’s heard you, and he will certainly consider the circumstances carefully before making a decision.”

With a heavy sigh, the old Marshal turned to look at the Prince. To Philippe, it seemed like the old man’s look was one of pity. Or maybe it was disdain?

With a bow, the old Count left the tent, followed by the other nobles, all of whom were chatting excitedly among themselves and marveling at the pitiless effects of age.

“The old man’s completely lost his mind...” The Prince overheard a quiet conversation among a group of aristocrats as they left the tent.

“Dismounting the knights... It’s something only a simpleton could possibly suggest...”

“Panickers be damned, gentlemen! Tomorrow, we’re going to show these insolent Atalians the power and fury of our cavalry and its lances!”

Once all the nobles had left the tent, and only the Dukes de Bauffremont and de Gondy remained, Philippe stood up from his throne and enjoyed a nice, long stretch. Immediately, his faithful valet rushed over and began to straighten out his master’s clothes.

“I’m tired, uncle. I’d like to rest for a while,” said Philippe in a somewhat whimsical, childlike tone.

“Of course, Your Highness.” The Duke de Bauffremont bowed, before adding: “I’ll give orders that you’re not to be disturbed.”

With that, Philippe nodded quickly in reply to the Duke de Gondy’s bow and rushed over to the exit on the opposite side of the tent.

“Monsieur, I assume you don’t really intend to force your knights to fight dismounted?” The Duke de Gondy asked the Duke de Bauffremont as soon as the Prince was gone.

“The old man seems to be in a bad way,” the Duke de Bauffremont shook his head. “Had I not known him since childhood, I’d have thought he was deliberately trying to rob us of our advantage.”

“And yet attacking their archers is a good idea, you’d have to admit,” the Duke de Gondy noted as he rubbed his chin.

“Agreed,” replied the Duke de Bauffremont with a nod. “I propose we separate our forces. My riders and I will attack, say, the right flank, while you wipe out the archers on the left flank.”

The Duke de Gondy nodded in agreement.

“And we’ll station two battalions of infantry in the center,” he added. “Supported by our archers and crossbowmen, they should be able to make it to the enemy fairly quickly. And His Highness will remain in the rear with the reserve.”

“Agreed,” nodded the Duke de Bauffremont. “It’s enough that his banner will be present on the field.”

“Has His Highness given any thought to what he wishes to do after we crush the Golden Lion?” The Duke de Gondy turned to stare firmly at the Prince’s uncle.

“His Highness would like to wait for the Margrave de Valier to join us in order to maximize our strength, then move straight into Atalia, which will be left defenseless after Marshal di Lorenzo’s defeat,” the Duke de Bauffremont replied with a devilish grin.

Despite the smiles and the friendly tone, of course, both men were prepared to dig their teeth into each other’s throat at the first opportunity.

“Two countries for the price of one,” smiled the Duke de Gondy.

“Well said,” snickered the Duke de Bauffremont.

Both of them would have been quite surprised to learn that when they made their little quips, they were both thinking of exactly the same person...