“You wear the Silver Rose,” said the knight to Ransom. “Who are you?”
“I’m Sir Ransom,” he replied, gazing at the men, each one in turn. He felt a sudden prickle of unease shoot down his shoulders. His Fountain magic was warning him of something, of some danger that lay ahead.
The knight looked startled. “You’ve come on a long journey, Sir Ransom. Did you come to see the duke?”
“Yes, with orders from the king,” Ransom said. He had the sealed writ in his saddlebag.
“We’ll escort you,” said the knight, and he turned. The other riders did as well, and they started toward the town.
“How’s the food here?” Dawson asked in a low voice, a grin on his mouth.
Although Ransom had been thinking about that himself a few minutes ago, dreaming of roast turkey and bronzed yams, he didn’t respond. The strange prickling sensation troubled him still, giving him a sensation of unease. He called ahead to the knights leading them. “How were things in the North this winter?”
“Cold,” one of the other knights grunted.
The feeling that something wasn’t right increased. The knights ahead exchanged a look. They didn’t strike up conversation amongst themselves, nor did they ask how things were at the palace or with the war. A feeling of doom came over Ransom as he stared at the fortress built into the mountainside.
“How is Duke Wigant doing?” he asked.
“Oh . . . the duke is quite well,” said the lead knight.
Looking ahead, Ransom saw that the road opened up as it approached the spiked timbers of the wall surrounding the town. The pine trees crowded the road on each side, creating a dense mass where it would be easy to hide troops or cavalry. His stomach twisted into a knot of worry, and his eyes lifted from the town to the castle. He had the distinct feeling of being a child again, standing on a barrel in front of the castle of the Heath with a hangman standing next to him holding a rope.
Ransom held up a hand to alert his men to stop and then eased Dappled to a halt. He glanced at the trees on both sides of the road. Although he couldn’t see past them, he felt sure there were soldiers hidden beyond, waiting to flank them.
“What’s wrong, Sir Ransom?” Dawson asked in a wary voice, his hand seizing one of his lances. He’d learned to respond to Ransom’s instincts.
The other riders kept going before one of them noticed they weren’t being followed. He said something in an undertone, and the others stopped. The leader turned his rouncy to the side.
“Oy!” he called. “What’s the matter?”
“Who do you serve?” Ransom asked in challenge.
“The Duke of North Cumbria,” said the man.
A ripple of distrust went through Ransom’s bones. “And who is that?”
The man stared at him in confusion, or perhaps he was feigning it. “You’re a nervous one. Come to the castle.”
Ransom didn’t trust it. “I want a writ of safe conduct first.”
He heard some of his own knights inhale sharply at the request. One asked for safe conduct from an enemy, not an ally. The implication was that Ransom didn’t trust the king’s liegeman in the North.
The lead knight from Dundrennan snorted. “You are daft, man. You want to linger in the cold while I fetch one? So be it.”
“Thank you. We’ll come no farther without one.”
The riders continued on to town, and as Ransom watched them go, he wondered if he was being overcautious.
Dawson looked both ways through the woods. “Do you think Duke Benedict is waiting for us?” he asked worriedly.
“I don’t know,” Ransom said, “but I sense something’s wrong. Dismount. Give the horses a rest and some provender. It could be nothing.”
“I don’t believe that,” Dawson said, shaking his head. “But we will do as you ask, my lord.”
They all dismounted and began to care for their horses. Ransom kept looking back at the town and peering into the woods. The distrustful feeling began to fade, and he worried he had misunderstood the Fountain’s promptings.
“They’re coming back,” Dawson said urgently.
Ransom mounted again. The cold had settled in his hands and feet after the brief wait, but he moved fast in spite of it. He gazed at the town, and his stomach dropped when he saw the numbers coming through the wooden gate. Five turned to ten, and then twenty, and then fifty or more. One carried a battle flag with the Eagle standard on it.
“They don’t look friendly,” said one of the other knights.
“Ride,” Ransom ordered, turning his destrier around. He looked at Dawson. “Get to Blackpool as fast as you can and send word to the king that there is treason here. You go ahead of us.”
“I want to fight,” Dawson said, his eyes fierce.
The young man reminded Ransom of himself, but if they fought here, now, they’d lose. They at least needed to bring the fight somewhere they’d have an advantage. “Obey me, Dawson, or you have no place in my mesnie.”
Dawson gritted his teeth in frustration, but he nodded and spurred his horse ahead of the others. Ransom and the knights followed him, charging back up the slope the way they’d come. He was grateful they’d stopped, even more so they’d given their steeds a needed rest and some food. Dappled grunted with the mounting tension as the noise of the advancing knights grew louder.
They made it to the top of the hill without being overrun. Ransom saw Dawson charging down the other side at breakneck speed, but Ransom reined in and turned. The other knights followed suit. They wouldn’t all make it to Blackpool.
“What shall we do, Sir Ransom?” asked one of the others with worry in his eyes.
“We’re outnumbered,” Ransom said. “Their horses are fresher. But right now, we have the high ground. That will help. Let’s break some lances, lads.”
Ransom took down five knights before both of his lances were destroyed. He charged into the thick of their attackers, swinging his bastard sword overhead as he rushed into the press of men. The power of the Fountain gushed into him, filling him with strength. Shouts of battle surrounded him. He felt blows striking him, but he turned and countered, driving his attackers away. His knights were surrounded, and one by one they started to fall. Each loss filled him with battle rage, which made him relentless in his attack.
His screaming horse bit down on a knight’s arm and dragged him off the saddle, where he was promptly crushed beneath a hail of hooves. Two knights charged Ransom at once, and he roared in defiance, spurring his destrier between them and swinging at them both. He used the hilt to pound the helmet of one while the other hacked at his armor viciously, trying to take off his arm holding the reins. The knight he’d bashed in the helmet toppled off his horse, and Ransom swung back, jamming his blade into the other knight’s visor.
“Dex aie!” Ransom shrieked, reviving the war cry of the Younger King. It was joined by the calls of others in his band. He saw a knight attacking one of his fellows from behind and rode up to the man and stabbed his horse in the rump, which caused the beast to groan and flail, spilling the knight backward off the saddle.
A flash of familiar armor caught Ransom’s eyes. Sir James. Ransom couldn’t see his face or the white-blond hair, but he recognized the man’s posture. A spurt of anger rushed through him as James struck at one of Ransom’s knights and killed him. He charged at his old nemesis, but three other knights intervened, blocking him. Ransom fought all three, one of whom held a studded mace he used to hammer relentlessly on Ransom’s arm until a counterstroke proved fatal and ended the assault. Ransom saw James turn and face him, saw the look of fear in his eyes beneath the visor.