“It will take time to bury the dead,” Lord Bryon said.
“Let the dead bury the dead,” the king snapped. “No, we’re going to Pree.”
Lord Bryon frowned in concern. “We don’t have siege engines. There is no way we can conquer that city without them.”
“I know that, Bryon. Estian knows it too. He’s no fool. But if our army is camped outside his walls, it limits his options. I’m not leaving Occitania without getting what I want. And I want the duchy of Bayree. Its duke is dead—he no longer needs it. I want it and payment for the widows and fatherless we’ve gained in this skirmish.”
Benedict gasped. “You’re going to ask him to pay you to leave? If he summons the rest of his forces, we’ll have no choice but to flee!”
“I am not leaving without taking something that will hurt him,” said the king with an intensity bordering on madness. “I’m weary of this foolishness. The hypocrisy of his people. They parade their banners on the tournament grounds. They grant laurels of victory and reward knights who show Virtus. But it’s all an act. A game. And when it came to a contest of wills, we won. I mean to show him that I will take what I wish as retribution for my son’s death, and he cannot stop me.”
Ransom stared at the king, sensing the implacability of his will. King Devon had an unconquerable spirit. But Estian was proud. He would know that giving in to the king now would hurt him down the road.
“How long must you bear grievance against Occitania?” said Benedict boldly. “We are not entirely innocent of wrong in the feud between our peoples.” He lifted a hand, sensing his father’s objection before it was spoken. “Don’t mistake my words. They overstepped when they attacked Devon, and I’m not at all opposed to making Estian sue for peace between our people. There is no loss of honor, on their part, in yielding to a more determined foe.”
“But if we drive them to desperation, we risk creating even more widows on both sides,” said Lord Bryon, shaking his head in frustration. “We risk bleeding our own strength, making ourselves vulnerable to Brugia. Word of this battle will spread like doves. Kingfountain is exposed now.”
The Elder King turned in his saddle. “I will not leave until I get what I want. But let us hasten the outcome.” He twisted back and looked at Ransom. “My boy, at dawn you will ride to Pree with five hundred knights. Demand to speak with the king.”
Benedict looked startled. “Send me, Father!”
“Confound it, boy! I know you want to go, but it is my will that Sir Ransom goes. Estian fears him. He does not fear you.”
“Only because he’s never faced me in battle. I’d kill him.”
“Well, if he kills Ransom, then you can have him.” The king chuckled with dark humor. He pointed at Ransom. “Ride up to the gates, but do not enter without a writ of safe conduct with the royal seal. You tell that pox-marked Estian that I’m at your heels. Ask him to surrender. He won’t. Negotiate. I’ll take the duchy of Bayree and fifty thousand livres. Hmmm. See if you can get more, but I want not a livre less than fifty thousand. You speak on my behalf. None of this running back and forth. If I don’t get what I want, then I will squeeze Pree and every village and town surrounding her, starting with Chessy. You are my man, and you will come to terms with that boy king. If he sends you away, we will burn his fields and make all the fair demoiselles in Occitania shriek when they hear his name. Bring me back a duchy, Sir Ransom. I’ll accept nothing less for my son’s death.”
Ransom had never seen the gates of Pree shut before, let alone with so many soldiers defending the ramparts. He rode with Dearley at his side. Ransom’s broken armor had been mended sufficiently to defend him, and he wore it now as they approached the walls. His insides squirmed with dread at the coming meeting. If there was a meeting. He feared the cloaked lady might make an appearance, although he did not sense her presence. The sounds of the knights behind him offered some assurance they were not without help.
Ransom gripped the standard of the Argentine king, a banner with the Silver Rose, its pole fixed in the saddle where the lances usually were kept. It was the king’s personal banner, the one usually held by his herald.
When they were close enough to see the faces of the men atop the walls, Ransom reined in and halted.
A tall man came to the edge of the rampart. “What news comes from our brethren of Ceredigion?”
An interesting choice of words.
“I am Sir Ransom Barton of the king’s council. He sent me to speak to King Estian and negotiate terms.”
A murmur went up among the armed soldiers atop the wall.
The man waited for silence and then said, “Should not a king treat with a king?”
Ransom knew his presence was an offense, and a carefully calculated one at that. There were many in Pree who remembered him. How many of them believed that he had disgraced the king’s sister, Noemie? Certainly no one had forgotten his tournament victory against their king.
He waited in silence a moment as he stared up at the men.
“It is not improper for a knight to speak with another knight,” he answered. “If my king comes to Pree, it will be to ruin her walls.”
More gasps, and he saw frowns of outrage. He waited, staring up at the battlements. He felt vulnerable to sudden attack.
The murmuring continued for a while, increasing his suspense.
“He will meet you,” came the answer. “Approach the gate, Sir Ransom. Bring two dozen knights. No more.”
“I demand a writ of safe conduct. No one doubts the king’s seal.”
And the herald brought one from the gate himself, holding the scroll out to Ransom from atop his milk-white stallion. He was clean-shaven, like most Occitanians, and wore a purple tunic. Ransom unraveled the scroll and inspected it, taking note of the seal of the Black Prince—a white sword against a black field, the blade shining like a torch.
Ransom handed the writ to Dearley. “Take this to the king and then return.”
“Aye, Sir Ransom,” said Dearley, his look suspicious. But he did as he was bid.
They followed the messenger into the city of Pree. It was completely dead, with only soldiers walking around, a stark contrast to the lively streets Ransom was accustomed to. People were hunkering down in their homes and shops, worried about the enemy at the gates.
With the streets being clear, they soon made it to one of the bridges leading to the island where the palace sat on a spit of land astride the massive river. Seeing it brought back more cascading memories. It was here he’d discovered, for the first time, that Devon intended to challenge his father. It was here it had all begun.
They crossed the bridge, but instead of going to the palace, they rode to the gardens on the north side of the island. King Estian was waiting at the gate. He had a bruise on his left cheekbone and a gleaming coronet band atop his head. His tunic was black, stitched with silver and blue threads, along with seed pearls forming a diamond-shaped pattern.
“Walk with me,” Estian said, gesturing to the gate and the gardens beyond.
Ransom looked at the knights who’d come with him and motioned for them to remain behind. He followed Estian through the gate and down one of the sculpted gravel paths, flanked with neatly trimmed hedgerows covered in budding pale flowers. There was an intoxicating smell that he suddenly recognized. It was star jasmine. The last time he’d smelled that was at the Chandleer Oasis.