It has been over a year since I last scribbled on these pages. I think my loathing of this confinement made me loathe this little book as well. At least I’ve had letters aplenty from Ransom. Quite a few of them talked about his past conflicts with Sir James, which leads me to believe someone told him about that fool eejit’s interest in me. I like that he wants to protect me, and I truly wish I could have been there in his youth to see him take on James and his moody henchlings when they were at Averanche together. So many stories. I cherish each one. He also told me about Lady Alix and her role in the Occitanian court. I’ve spent the afternoon reading through those letters as well as these pages again, sometimes with a smile, sometimes with tears. Sir Dalian says the dungeon is full of prisoners now, and many of them are sick and dying. I don’t know how those poor souls can live with their chains. My captivity isn’t nearly as onerous as theirs, but a caged bird is still caged, no matter how expensive the bars.
Well, if Benedict wins, we will shortly earn our release. But at what cost?
As I understand things—you must pardon me, future reader, if any of my facts are in error—the Elder King intended to press his son to relinquish the Vexin lands to his youngest brother, Jon-Landon, in return for being named heir presumptive and crowned King of Ceredigion. Of course, he would be king in name but not in power. Both father and son are stubborn men, which needs no further elaboration on my part. Rather than heed his father’s wishes, Benedict went to Pree and swore fealty to the King of Occitania, returning the Vexin lands back to their previous loyalty. I assure you that the queen was not in favor of this outcome. She offered to go to the Vexin herself to persuade Benedict to make peace, but her husband refused, believing she would once again betray him. So he lost his greatest ally, the one person who has influence in those lands, because he could not trust or forgive her.
Ransom discovered Benedict’s treason during his mission to Pree. He told me that he held a sword to Estian’s throat and threatened to dispatch him then and there. You can imagine the Elder King’s rage when he learned of Benedict’s defection. He promptly sent a force to the Vexin to secure the duchy for himself, and at the same time, Benedict invaded Westmarch. The son’s move proved crippling for the father, for the king kept a good deal of his treasury secreted at Tatton Grange, which the young duke quickly claimed for himself. The money has enabled him to hire his own mercenaries to further his cause. Estian claimed that the Elder King violated the terms of the truce and has refused to pay as previously agreed upon, even though Devon argued that he was attacking his own land and not Occitania’s.
The fighting stopped during the winter season, although both sides positioned men and supplies to begin a spring offensive. When the Elder King tried to drive Occitanian forces out of Westmarch, Benedict attacked Glosstyr. You can imagine how sick with anger it made me to hear that my father’s lands were being ravaged, and there was naught anyone could do about it. This forced the Elder King to strike at his son, who feinted around the army and went farther north, threatening Duke Wigant’s lands. Meanwhile, Occitania captured Southport and defeated Duke Rainor in a consequential battle there. The duke himself is now being held for ransom back in Pree.
Father and son fought through the year and even into winter before each side retreated to strongholds. The Elder King is staying at Beestone castle. Lord Kinghorn has been defending Kingfountain. And Ransom has been seeking allies on behalf of the king. His own fortunes have fallen along with his master’s. His castle in Occitania was forfeit, which leaves him a small manor in Ploemeur and only one castle—Josselin, and that has been threatened multiple times by Benedict’s men. At one time he was supposed to marry the heir of Bayree, but that has all been upended by this conflict. I wonder how he feels about it. He comes and goes so frequently. We haven’t seen each other since that day the king called Emi in to talk. I don’t know whether to hope or give up hope. I still have that little bit of braided leather that reminds me of the one I gave him. Sometimes I hold it to my nose and smell it.
If the Elder King had any sense at all, he would have made Ransom the Duke of Glosstyr by now. But I think the queen understands that he cannot bear to give up power after he has it in his hands.
—Claire de Murrow
The days of war
(like olden times)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Winds of Change
Snow crunched beneath Dappled’s hooves as Ransom and his knights traveled the northern road. The air was crisp with cold and smelled of pine. Birds were charging about, some black-and-white breed trimming bits of bark from the shrubs, and the sky was mottled with clouds. The landscape had a bleak look to it that made him think with longing of the wildlife of Legault. Claire had described it so vividly in her letters he felt like he’d visited the green, lush land himself.
“How far is Dundrennan?” asked Sir Dawson. He’d joined Ransom’s mesnie as a knight in training six months earlier and had already earned the rank. Dawson was seventeen, tall and athletic, and had the look of a soldier who’d already seen many conflicts. And indeed he had. They all had.
“If it were spring, we’d be hearing the falls already,” answered Ransom, watching the plume of fog come from his lips as he answered. “They slow during the winter and aren’t as loud, but we’re close.”
He turned his neck to glance at the other twenty riders following behind him in tight ranks. Dearley wasn’t with them. He’d stayed back at Josselin to protect the castle in case Benedict tried another go at it. Ransom’s two wards had gotten even closer during the winter’s confinement, while he had traveled under less than pleasant circumstances on errands for his king.
Each of the men had two lances, and while Ransom wasn’t expecting a brush with Benedict’s knights this far north, it didn’t hurt to be cautious. The snow had already melted farther south, but the climate of the North required heavy cloaks and thicker padding beneath their armor.
“How many times have you been there?” Dawson asked.
Ransom shrugged, swiveling back and fixing his gaze on the road. “Once. Duke Wigant couldn’t spare any men to help the crown last season—he was too busy pushing back the Atabyrions. But we’ve lost Lord Rainor, so we need Wigant now. Dundrennan can hold out for a long time if it’s attacked.”
Once they cleared the rise, the view opened up, and they could see Dundrennan amidst the snowy mountains. The falls next to it seemed like a white tongue of ice, although the sound of falling water could still be heard.
“Now that’s a sight,” Dawson said in awe.
It was. Smoke from the many hearth fires in the castle added to the layering of clouds, some of which were low enough to smother the highest peaks of the mountains. Birds chirped and fluttered from tree to tree with giddy excitement, as if promising the riders that spring was on its way.
As they rode down the slope on the other side, coming to the town at the base of the mountains, a group of six men rode forward to intercept them. Ransom appreciated that the duke had posted guards to keep watch for incoming troops. It was what he would have done.
The lead horseman had the badge of an eagle, the symbol of Wigant’s house. Ransom didn’t recognize him, but he slowed and raised a knightly salute.