Ransom gazed at him with concern. “I think it’s poison, my lord.”
The king nodded curtly. “I’ve thought the same. How she got into the palace is a mystery, but you once saw her disappear into a fountain—we know she has uncanny abilities.” He sniffed. “They want to end this conflict. A missive arrived from Estian this morning, asking to broker a peace between me and Benedict. What cheek he has. Is not that why I sent you to Beestone? My strength is failing. Soldiers are deserting in droves. But your arrival . . . it’s truly a gift from the Fountain. Bless you, my boy. Thank you for your loyalty.”
Ransom felt his stomach clench with dread. He’d never seen the king’s health so compromised. Usually, he was so strong and hearty.
“We should go back down, Father,” said the prince. “You need to rest.”
“I’ll rest when I’m good and ready!” snapped the king. The discomfort was making him irritable. “You need lessons in war, boy. That’s why we are here.” He thumped Ransom on the back again and then turned to his youngest son. “Look down from the walls. Tell me what you see with a soldier’s eye.”
The prince blinked with surprise, but he sidled up next to his father, arms folded. “The bridge is made of wood. It’ll burn.”
“Exactly. But flames can be doused and wood takes time to burn. I have men with axes at the ready, waiting for my order to demolish the bridge. Look at the river. What are those men doing?”
“Catching fish?”
“No! We have plenty of stores already. We can survive a siege for quite some time. They are putting sharp wooden stakes in the river. Why?”
The prince’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t know.”
“To block the fords,” said the king patiently. “We don’t want to make it easy for them to cross, you see. Every trap we set delays them. They’ll get across the river. I have no doubt of it. But we must ensure each step costs them in pain and frustration. Once they do wade across, if they do, then we burn the town. That adds smoke, you see? Makes it difficult for them to breathe and fight.”
“Difficult for us too,” said Jon-Landon.
“True. But we hold the ramparts. The fires will burn for days, making it costly and dangerous to attack the walls. The river is the best protection we have. That alone will hold them off.”
“What if they try crossing a bridge to the east or west of us?”
“I know this river, lad. It is called the Pervenshere, and it runs nigh Tatton Grange. It’ll cost them many days to go either way. And we’d follow them, forbid them to cross.” His eyes had a far-off look. “I know this area better than anyone. I used to hunt the woods north of this castle when I was your age.”
Those reminiscences seemed to fill him with sadness, with regret.
“You never took me hunting,” said the prince.
The words were like a blow to an exposed wound. Ransom wanted to chide the young man, but it wasn’t his place.
The king simply nodded. “Let’s go back down. Have the cook bring some milk. It’s the only thing that soothes my stomach.”
“Very well, Father,” said the prince, and he started off. His fashionable clothes and the dagger dangling from his belt looked out of place when war loomed so close.
The king shook his head and turned to gaze at Ransom. “How is Constance?”
“She’s grieving,” said Ransom. “Sir Terencourt died rescuing me. I promised her that I would protect her son’s life.”
“My only grandson, and I haven’t seen him yet,” said the king wistfully. His expression hardened with wrath. “Estian demanded I relinquish Brythonica. He wishes to take Constance in as his ward, and I’m to believe Goff’s death was an accident.” His nostrils flared. “I feel like a wounded elk with the birds pecking at me before I’ve become a carcass. Everything I wanted to give my sons is being torn away, bit by bit. Benedict will regret this alliance he’s made. No matter the results of this war, he’ll lose more than he ever would have by giving up the Vexin.”
“What would you have me do?”
The king stared over the battlement walls. “Tomorrow morning, I want you to take some scouts and cross the bridge. I need to know how much time we have.”
“Isn’t it possible they’ll strike at Kingfountain first?”
The king pursed his lips. “He wants the crown. And that’s why he’ll come here. I’m sure of it.”
Long after nightfall, Ransom went to check on the king. When he tapped on the door, Sir Iain answered it. He was the only other member of the king’s council present, but he was aged and would be of limited help should a fight break out.
“Can I speak with the king?” Ransom asked.
“He’s asleep, finally,” said Sir Iain. He opened the door wider. “See for yourself.”
Ransom peered into the darkened chamber. A fire crackled in the hearth, providing light and too much warmth. The king lay on the bed without any covers, still wearing his clothes from the day, although his cloak had been tossed on a chair. Ransom ventured in, hearing the faint whistle of breath coming from the sleeping king.
No one else was there. “Where is the prince?” Ransom asked.
Sir Iain sighed. “He’ll be back before dawn.”
Ransom looked at him in concern.
The aging knight sighed again. “He sneaks off after the king falls asleep.”
“Where does he go?”
“A lass in the village has caught his fancy. I haven’t told the king yet. He has enough worries.”
Sir James had been a companion to the prince. No doubt he’d educated the young man on the ignoble arts of carousing. It pained Ransom that the prince was off pleasing himself at such a moment. “Tell me he has a bodyguard?”
“Sir Kyle is very discreet.”
Ransom breathed out through his nose. Then he approached the bedside of the king and gazed down at him. He could feel the man’s indisposition through the Fountain magic.
He unbuckled his sword belt.
Sir Iain gave him a questioning look but said nothing as Ransom laid the scabbard atop the king as gently as he could, trying not to wake him. He didn’t know if the scabbard would heal the king, but he had to try.
When he let go, he stared at the symbol of the raven, wishing it would brighten the way it did when it was healing someone. But nothing happened. Perhaps the only wounds it healed were injuries of war. For all he knew, it might only work for him. Disappointment coursed through him. After waiting several moments, he retrieved the weapon and buckled it back on.
When he returned to his own room, he found the others asleep on pallets on the floor, except for Dearley, who sat with a small oil lamp, a piece of paper, and an inkwell at the humble table near the window. He was tugging on his bottom lip, so lost in thought that he didn’t notice Ransom’s return until he heard the door shut.
Ransom sidestepped a sleeping body and slumped into the chair next to him, glancing at the half-written letter. He wanted to write to Claire again, but he knew it would be difficult, if not impossible, to get a message to Kingfountain before this battle was done.
“Your brother came by looking for you,” said Dearley. “He’d like to join the scouting expedition in the morning.”