Siege of Toure

"Then come back to bed, Regi," She pleaded. "Let us wait for the morning bell together."

He smiled, a weary, wistful smile. They had spent little personal time together in the past months. Since the arrival of the royal army, Reginald had been busy with his duties as duke. From before dawn to long after nightfall, he toured the city and the keep, inspecting defenses and trying to keep morale of the men high. In his fatalistic mind, he knew it was all for naught, that the city did not have the strength to combat the force arrayed against it. He felt he would be beaten, dishonored, and at last executed in shame.

But he also knew that Mariette suffered as well. Their marriage had been arranged by parents when they were but teens. Nevertheless, they had grown to love each other very deeply. While he had his duties as Duke to keep his mind from breaking, she had little. Her maids she had sent away with the women and children. Her eldest son had been killed in Bordeau by the King's orders three years before. Her daughter was the hostage of House Ceurre, who remained loyal to the Rendor Crown. But trough it all, she had steadfastly refused to give in to her grief. She, too, had duties. She visited the women who remained in the keep, keeping their spirits as high as possible. She had become a symbol of strength for the keep's defenders.

But Reginald knew that what she craved most of all was the love of her husband. And through the despair in his heart, he was unable to give it.

"I must attend to the city, Mari," he said in a near whisper.

His felt his wife's face drop. He knew she was hurting, but he also knew she would never let him see it.

"The city needs it's Duke," she said, smiling a forced smile, "and it's next king."

He clasped her hand in his, kissed it, and left her on the battlements. Brave words, but only a fool believed there was still hope he could secure his claim to the throne.

____

As the sun finally peaked its light over the western foothills, Duke Reginald Fortrerre emerged from his chambers in the regal trappings of his office. The shoulder plates over his chain-mail armor, as always, were polished to a mirror shine. His dark green cloak with the symbol of his house, the two-headed Golden Dragon of Fortrerre, was somewhat worn, but given the shortage of cloth in the city, was far more regal than any worn in Toure. His fine leather gloves, imported from Hebronus in the south, were immaculately clean. His dark beard with hints of gray was neatly trimmed. Only his eyes betrayed him. He could not hide the weariness in them. Luckily, the vast majority of the people in the city did not look so deeply. They saw him as their fearless leader only.