The words sent a spasm of relief through Ransom’s heart. Cold sweat had formed on his brow, but he felt the tension ebb. Never had he been so glad to be spied on.
The Elder King shook his head, muttering something under his breath. “Nor do I think that Lady Deborah, who inspired this plan, used it to sell me out to the Occitanians. No, I’ve long believed the Occitanians have a way of spying on us from within. That they have some uncanny means of tracking the movement of my armies. I do not know how. Regardless, this turn of events leaves us with but one choice. We attack Estian. Now.”
Duke Ashel gave a vicious grin, but Duke Rainor seemed full of misgivings. “We don’t know how big his army is yet,” he objected.
“It doesn’t matter. We defeat it. It’s as simple as that. He’s trying to frighten us. To make us turn tail and run back to safety. I will not. This situation gives Benedict a choice to make. He either fights with us or against us. If he fights against us, I hereby decree that Goff is my heir and command you to show loyalty to him in my stead. I say this because I will not quit this battle until they yield, or I meet my end. Through fair winds or foul, I will not relent in my purpose. I will not yield the field unless I give it my corpse. Rouse the men. Have them prepare. We fight tonight. Any who stand in our way will be hewn down like grass. That is my command.”
“But if we wait another day, Wigant’s son will get here with his army,” said Lord Kinghorn. “That could turn the tide of the battle.”
“No. It means his men will be fresh and can help the rest retreat if need be.” The king clenched his fist and pounded it on the table. “We fight. Tonight. Now! Bryon, you take the vanguard. I want Ashel on the right and Rainor on the left. Don’t let them flank us. Ransom, you will command the reserve and await my orders. If Benedict tries to strike us from behind, you will be my wall to hold him off. I’ve cast the dice, let the pips land where they may. Rouse your men.”
Ransom felt a surge of gratitude to have been given such an important role in the battle, and despite the challenge before them, he felt buoyed by the force of the king’s determination. By the vow he had made to serve him. By the knowledge that they would be fighting Ceredigion’s true enemies. He marched out of the tent and went to his pavilion. Dearley was fast asleep, breathing softly. Ransom crouched and shook him by the shoulder, startling him awake.
“Is it morning?” Dearley asked, wincing, trying to see in the dark. His eyes were confused.
“The king has given the order,” he said. “We’re going to fight the Occitanians. Tonight.”
Dearley’s jaw fell. “The Occitanians? W-whu? Where are they?”
“In the town of Bloissy, just south of here. Remember what I told you about expectations? We’re not here to fight Benedict. We came to defeat Occitania, to carve another duchy from her. Get your armor back on. I’m going to make you a knight this evening. I’ll go ask Lord Kinghorn to stand witness.”
Dearley’s look of shock made Ransom smile. He remembered being knighted before his first battle, and he felt it only appropriate to do the same for his ward. “I’m—tonight? Are you serious?”
Ransom nodded, rose, and put his hand on his sword. “Be ready when I get back.”
A visitor came to the cistern garden today. Prince Jon-Landon Argentine. I know I have written previously about my disdain for him. He’s dark-haired, unlike his older brothers, with a sallow face and a look that shows he holds much of the world in contempt. He is seventeen now, or almost—I cannot remember his true age. He has rancor in his heart for his mother. That is obvious in the overly courteous way he speaks to her, his eyes always shifting to distrust. He’s his father’s son and has been rewarded for despising his mother. Yet still he came to see her, or did he just come to see me?
I do not like Jon-Landon. I cannot help but think he is watching all of us, sizing us up, trying to seek a weakness he can tuck away for later use. The conversation was stilted and awkward. The only time he seemed genuine was when he expressed his concern for his father, the king, and what is happening during this present unrest with his brother. It is a concern I share.
There is no news yet from Westmarch. Everyone is looking for riders to come.
—Claire de Murrow
Cistern Garden
(the dreadful silence)
CHAPTER FIVE
The Desolation of War
It went against all of Ransom’s instincts to watch the battle rage in front of him without charging into the fray. He sat astride Dappled, two lances couched in holders fixed to the saddle, his bastard sword in the Raven scabbard at his side. The rear guard of the army surrounded him, the men’s eyes fixed on the scene in front of them as the armies of Ceredigion and Occitania battered each other.
Ransom’s blood sang with the thrill of battle as he watched the clash, as he listened to the sounds. Horses screaming. Swords clanging. Lances shattering against shields. Men groaning or screaming in hate. It all swept over him like waters from a flood, igniting the trickling sound of the falls in his ears. He could sense the battle as if it were a living thing, a creature of enormous size, a monster made of armor, axes, swords, and helmets. And like a monster, it seemed on the verge of engulfing them all in blood.
In his mind, he heard echoes of the rallying speech that Devon had given before the attack. It had charged up all the knights and soldiers, Ransom included, and compelled a throaty yell from them as they rode onto the field.
“Fear them not, my brothers!” the king had shouted from his horse, brandishing his sword. “They’re used to tournaments and flowers, not the sour harshness of war that you lads have drunk since your mother’s milk! A debt of blood is owed this day. Blood like that which dripped from my son’s mouth and eyes as he lay dying at Beestone, a victim of Occitanian treachery. They mock us and claim we are weak. We will prove our strength is mightier than theirs. Onward, lads! Onward until they cry for peace! Spare none until it is over! We shall be avenged this day!”
Even now, Ransom’s blood surged with the will to fight, to follow his king into battle. Instead, he stood watch vigilantly, waiting for a time when he was needed. His senses searched too for any signs of the Occitanian poisoner. Estian’s father had not hesitated to use her against them, and Ransom suspected the same of the son.
Time was no longer a concept that made any sense, so he wasn’t aware of how much of it had passed when a prickle of awareness shot down his spine. He sensed riders coming, could feel the thrum of hooves as they approached from behind.
“Sir Ransom!” one of the knights called out in concern. “The Lion banner! It’s Benedict!”
Ransom turned at his waist and gazed at the approaching men. A host of knights rode toward them from across the field, a small group leading them, one rider carrying the red banner with the golden lion.
“What do we do?” asked Dearley in concern. He’d looked pale all night, but somehow he’d lost more color. “Will they attack us?”
“I don’t know,” Ransom replied. “Stand ready. Front ranks, stay where you are. Back ranks, turn about. Prepare your lances!” He grabbed one of his own and pressed the wide shaft against his side. He circled Dappled around and came through the line to put himself at the forefront. The riders from the Vexin were coming fast, most on horseback, but he also saw foot soldiers running, holding pikes and halberds. He grimaced at the numbers he saw. If Benedict decided to attack, they would be in trouble.