“Sir Dearley,” Ransom said, turning to the young knight who had just received his rank. “Get word to the king that his son approaches. Quickly now.”
Dearley nodded and began riding toward the battle lines they’d been observing during the conflict. Ransom saw that Benedict was one of the vanguard, along with four knights. The group was riding hard and fast toward them.
Ransom kept his lance raised and rode to meet the five of them by himself. If they all lowered lances against him, he was a dead man. But he judged that Benedict was ahead of his army for a reason. It meant he sought more information before he acted.
As Ransom came closer to the group, he felt more confident of his appraisal. Benedict and his men had lances too, but the tips were pointed skyward. No one signaled they wanted to challenge him. Benedict made a signal, and his four companions slowed while he rode on until his lathered horse was right in front of Ransom’s.
“Have I come too late?” he gasped, his cheeks flushed. He pulled off his helmet, spilling out his tangled hair. His beard and his bulky armor gave him a menacing look.
“Too late for what?” Ransom asked. “Are you friend or foe?”
“I am the Duke of Vexin!” Benedict said hotly. He looked at Ransom in disbelief. “I thought Father was coming to fight me—unjustly, I should say. His target was Estian all along?”
“Yes,” Ransom said. “Though Estian was waiting for us here. Somehow he knew.”
“I didn’t know,” Benedict said. “I swear it on the Lady. We came to answer the call to arms. If my father is fighting Occitania, then I will join the assault. Where can we aid you?”
Ransom felt a huge swell of relief. “This is good news indeed.”
“Enough talk!” Benedict said. “Direct us. Where are we needed?”
“Duke Rainor has the left flank. He’s been hard pressed and is giving ground. Add your force to his, and see if you can block the road back to Pree to prevent Estian from escaping.”
“I will do so, Sir Ransom. Are you commanding the rear guard?”
“Yes, my lord duke.”
He shook his head ruefully. “You belong in the thick of the fighting. I should have liked to fight alongside you.”
“Perhaps another day,” said Ransom. “See to it. The battle isn’t yet won, but with your help, the day will be ours.”
Benedict nodded, his eyes burning with determination. “I’m grateful we’re not too late.” He turned and lifted his lance. “To arms!” he shouted.
Ransom watched as Benedict went back to his men and changed their course, leading them directly to the left flank, as ordered. He would have to keep watch to ensure his trust in the duke was not misplaced. If Benedict attacked Rainor’s men, Ransom would have to strike his forces from behind.
But those seedling doubts were only that. The knights of Vexin charged into the fray, clashing violently with the Occitanians. The additional men upended the balance, and the knights of Pree began to give way.
Ransom saw the king with his guard returning with Dearley. The king was breathing hard and had blood-spattered armor, but he looked fresh, enlivened by the energy of the battle.
“Is it true?” the king said, panting. “Did Bennett come?”
“I sent him to the left flank,” Ransom answered. “Look, he’s already breaking through.”
The king grinned with triumph. “I’d almost feared to hope. Look at him! That’s my son!” His grin was tremendous. It was proud. “Good lad. If he’d turned on us, we’d have failed. It’s still . . . it’s still not certain. But this has shifted the tide.”
“Send us to the fight, my lord,” said Ransom earnestly.
“It’s a mess down there,” said the king. “Hard to tell who is who.” For a moment, Ransom thought his request would be denied, but the king shook his head. “Get in there. Help Duke Ashel. He’s taking a beating, but thank the Fountain, he isn’t giving in. Go!”
Ransom nodded and shouted the order to his men. Dearley swallowed and grabbed his lance.
“Stay by me,” Ransom told the young knight.
The younger man nodded in agreement, but he looked greensick. Ransom took off on Dappled, and the knights of the rear guard came after him, their horses’ hoofbeats adding to the cacophony of the battle.
Rather than risk wounding their countrymen—the chaos of battle made it difficult to discern between friend and foe—Ransom led his host to outflank the Occitanians and strike from the side. Shouts of warning came, and the soldiers swung around as the horde of knights from Ceredigion came upon them. Several knights wearing black tunics rushed forward to keep them from crashing into the melee.
Ransom lowered his lance and charged straight at the black-garbed knights. These were Estian’s personal men, the ones who’d fought in the tournament circuit.
Ransom’s blood screamed as the magic tingled through him. He knocked the first man off his horse without losing his lance. Another knight tried to skewer him, but Ransom leaned to the side and then couched his lance again and struck a different knight. The timber shattered, raining broken fragments onto the field. Distantly, he registered that his men had joined the attack. He acted on instinct, grabbing his second lance and using it to knock down another man, but it shattered on impact. Dappled screamed with rage and took a bite out of another horse’s withers.
When he had no more lances, Ransom drew his bastard sword. One of the black-clad knights charged him with a lance, and Ransom was able to deflect it with his blade and then strike a blow as the knight rode past. A throb of warning struck him, and he turned to the left. There was Dearley, the stump of a lance under his arm, as two knights bore down on him with fresh lances. The young knight looked stunned as he watched the two men charging at him.
Ransom felt a throb of protectiveness. Two against one was unfair in any contest, but against such a stripling? He swatted Dappled with the flat of his blade and charged forward to intercept.
The clatter of arms swelled around him as he urged his horse to greater speed. Ashel’s men were pressing the Occitanians back, sending them toward Ransom and his men. Despite the confusion of the battle, he sensed what was happening, like the tune of a song that was familiar to his ears.
Dearley leaned forward, gripping his shattered lance in preparation to receive the attack. His face looked calm, as if he were expecting to die.
Ransom arrived, putting himself and his horse in front of Dearley’s. A lance pierced his armor and the force of the blow nearly toppled him off the saddle. Cracking wood. Agony. He gripped the saddle horn, feeling his body sliding off the seat, but he clenched and grimaced and managed to remain on his horse. His interference had broken both of the attacks.
Suddenly he was surrounded by Occitanian foot soldiers, pushed back by Ashel’s front, trying to retreat. They surged around his horse, fleeing, but some took aim at him. Spears began to dent his armor, and one such blow actually helped him regain his balance.
Black knights astride their horses struggled to reach him, caught in a swift current of fleeing bodies. Another blow hit Ransom from behind, and he felt the second sting of pain. He swung his sword arm around, deflecting a halberd tip and then slaying the man who held it. Clinging to the saddle horn, having lost hold of the reins, he fought against the surge of foot soldiers. One of the mounted knights in black managed to get past the flood of fleeing men, and he attacked Ransom with a bastard sword.