The Demons of Paris (Demon Rift) by Flint Eric & Goodlett Paula & Huff Gorg

Author:Flint, Eric & Goodlett, Paula & Huff, Gorg [Flint, Eric & Goodlett, Paula & Huff, Gorg]
Format: epub
Tags: Historical fantasy, Time travel
Publisher: Eric Flint's Ring of Fire Press
Published: 2018-02-23T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Somewhere in France

April 1, 1372

Philip the Bold rode through the night with his sword across his back and hate in his heart. His demon, the one that he thought of as his, had abandoned him. Retreated, he suspected, back to whichever circle of Hell the treacherous demon belonged.

It was all Bertrand du Guesclin's fault. The notion that Charles should be king rather than Philip was a constant galling pain in Philip's gut. Why should the accidental order of birth rather than merit determine who would be king? Philip’s blood was just as royal as that of the weak and sickly Charles. He had been their father's choice. He was the bold one, the man of destiny. But peasants like Bertrand insisted that Charles sit on the throne and guide their lands to ruin at the hands of the English and the traitorous Pope Gregory.

One of the bits of information that had come with the twenty-firsters was the knowledge that Gregory would take the papacy back to Rome, abandoning France. And that milksop Charles just let him go! A real king, a true royal, would have stopped him and forced the English out of France as well.

The litany of grievances went on as Philip rode from Burgundy to Berry in order to persuade his brother—John, the duke of Berry—to join him. He harped on everything he imagined Charles had done wrong, including and especially how he had dealt with the capture of Philip and their father by the English all those years ago.

Windsor Castle, London, England

April 1, 1372

John of Gaunt, the first duke of Lancaster and holder of numerous other titles, bowed to his father, Edward III of England, who nodded in return. John looked around, hesitating. This was a pleasant room, just off a private garden where the king grew his flowers. There were hangings on the walls, and the windows were opened, letting in the light and the smell of new shoots from the garden. Still, his reason for being here was not to enjoy the flowers.

Father or not, semi-informal setting or not, telling King Edward III of England he couldn't do what he wanted entailed a level of formality. Even if his father was sixty and more concerned with his flowers and his mistress than he was with France. John had been given command of the attempt to restore ownership of their territories there.

"We cannot continue with the war, Your Majesty."

"Has the Blood Royal so weakened as to make the call of battle no siren song to you? Would that your brother, Edward, were recovered."

"He would tell you the same, Father," John said. "In fact, he sent me here with his words. It is not that we would avoid battle, but simply that battle of a different nature has come to us. There are leprechauns in Ireland, pookas in Scotland and brownies throughout England. Every hedgewitch has a familiar teaching them magic and every marsh is filled with will-o-the-wisps. There is a dragon in Loch Ness, terrifying the villagers.

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