Lord Kinghorn leaned over to him. “How is my cousin, Lady Sibyl? Have you heard from your mother recently?”
“I have,” Ransom answered. “My brother is joining the knights of Heath to support the king’s forces at Beestone castle.”
“How many have remained behind to guard the Heath?”
“I don’t know, but Mother isn’t a fool. She’ll defend the castle.”
Lord Kinghorn smiled knowingly. “You’re right about that.” The smile slipped as he surveyed the room. “Too many empty chairs,” he murmured.
They waited a long time for the king, who was normally very punctual. When he finally arrived, he came with Jon-Landon, his arm draped around his youngest son’s shoulder. Jon-Landon wore a dark green tunic that was nearly black, and his dark hair looked tousled, as if he’d just been in bed. The young man roved his gaze around the assembly as he entered, giving off a feeling of discomfort.
“Where do I sit, Father?” Jon-Landon asked when they reached the other members of the council.
“Sit there,” the Elder King said, gesturing.
“That’s Benedict’s seat,” said Jon-Landon with a frown.
“And that is why you will sit there,” the king said.
The prince went and slumped into the chair. Duke Ashel shook his head subtly, his nostrils flaring. The youngest Argentine son had a reputation for being surly and more interested in acquiring power and wealth than in learning how to use either.
Dressed in his sable cloak with wolfskin trim, the king strode to the center of the council. Ransom saw the agitation in his eyes, in his clenched fists. He paraded in front of them all, going from person to person as if passing judgment on an unspoken crime.
“Another one of my sons is missing,” said the king after his circuit around the chairs was complete. He stepped up onto the dais and lowered himself onto his throne, leaning forward and projecting his anger.
“Is he delayed?” asked Lady Deborah.
The king shook his head no. “The herald I sent to Ploemeur just returned. Goff wasn’t at Ploemeur. He never got the summons.”
Ransom looked down at the floor. He could hear the pain in Devon’s voice.
“So I brought another son. My only loyal son. He will be part of the king’s council from now on.”
Ransom glanced at the prince, who looked thoroughly ill at ease. Jon-Landon was nearly the same age as Dawson, but he suspected Dawson would have been a better choice to sit in the chair.
The king raised his hands and shrugged. “I must assume that Goff has also betrayed me. We’ve lost Bayree, the Vexin, and now Brythonica. Wigant’s brat has also turned on us. Thanks to Sir Ransom,” he added, gesturing to him with a pleased look, “he was chased back into the castle like a whipped pup in front of his men. But my scouts have already confirmed that Sir James is not lingering in the frozen North. His army has left the gates.”
“Any word on the Duke of Vexin’s movements?” Lord Kinghorn asked. “Where did he spend the winter?”
“My spies say he was in Pree,” answered the king. “But since half of my treasury was stolen, it’s possible they’ve found someone who’ll offer them more coin. Maybe Bennett wants me to think he’s in Pree. Regardless, we must choose a target and strike. Who here can best think like my son? What will Bennett do next? I have an idea, but I don’t want to limit your thinking. Give me your counsel. What must we do to regain all we’ve lost?”
Sir Iain scratched his chin. “The boy wants to be king. That means he has to come here. Draw your force together and wait for him. Let him stretch his lines. He cannot exert dominion over so much land.”
The king nodded in a noncommittal way and looked around the room, seeking other advice.
Lord Kinghorn spoke next. “The duke knows you are unpredictable and has sought to be the same way. He wants to keep us guessing. But his heart is loyal to the Vexin. Make his people suffer, and he’ll abandon his pursuits to come to you.”
“Interesting,” the king said, but showed no emotion.
Lord Ashel snorted. “He won’t come. He’ll not let emotion rule him. If we attack the Vexin, we leave our lands open for the same treatment. I’m not worried about Sir James. He’s a stripling and knows a farthing about war. Did the knight who Ransom captured reveal anything more? Does he know where they were to meet?”
The king glanced at Ransom. “No. He wasn’t given that knowledge.”
“Perhaps a little pain will help him remember?” Lord Ashel said viciously.
Ransom shook his head no. “My lord,” he said, looking at the king. “I received word today from Sir Dearley at Josselin. Some farmers saw knights passing through. He suspects Benedict may attempt to take the castle again.”
The king’s brow furrowed. “That is good to know. What else? What would you do, Sir Ransom?”
“The herald you sent to Ploemeur. Did he tell you anything else? They truly didn’t know where Goff had gone?”
The king gritted his teeth. “What they said and what they knew are two different things. He said they seemed overly nervous, agitated about the summons, as if fearing that their lord was in a place where he ought not to be. I can only assume it was Pree. So what do you say, Ransom? Forget about Goff. What will Bennett do?”
Ransom wanted more time to think on it, but the answer that came to his mind was simple. “He will go wherever you are, my lord. He wants to beat you in subtlety and beat you in battle.”
The king stared at him intently, leaning forward in his throne. “You think he wants to kill me? If that were his aim, surely the poisoner would have carried through Estian’s threat long ago.”
Ransom shook his head no. “My lord, he’ll put you in the tower. He will give the Vexin lands back to his mother. He will strip away members of your council, one by one. Choose your ground. He will come.”
The others were all looking at him. He could feel their scrutiny and see it from the corners of his eyes. But he kept his gaze fixed on the king’s.
“Lady Deborah?” the king asked, still looking at Ransom.
“There is only one course that has not been suggested. Nor do I recommend it. I think Ransom’s counsel is the most prudent. Pick your location. Westmarch, perhaps. You were the duke there, and many of the people are still loyal to you. If you lose to Benedict, demand that you remain as duke. Your son has not made any mistakes so far. Give him time, and he will, and you can step in and exploit them.”
As always, she delivered good advice.
The king inclined his head toward Lady Deborah. “What course has not been suggested? Say it.”
“I would rather not, my lord.”
“Say it, Deborah,” the king said icily.
“Abdication. If you fight him and destroy each other, we all perish. We’ve already lost so many knights. If we keep fighting, we’ll be too weak to defeat King Estian when he rides in to claim what’s left. Abdicate and give Benedict your strength. Give him what you didn’t give the Younger King.”
A look of rage and anger trembled on Devon the Elder’s face. Ransom could see that the strategy made sense. It would keep Ceredigion whole and turn Estian into a rival. But like Lady Deborah, he knew Devon was incapable of doing what Gervase had done. Even Gervase had only decided on that course after losing everything.