Devon looked at Ransom with a bleak expression. Pain still writhed inside the king—he could sense it—and this foul news made it worse. The stand, which should have lasted several fortnights, had ended on the first day. It was a miserable defeat.
“We ride north, then,” said the king. “Abandon the town.”
“What of the soldiers fighting the fires?” asked one of his knights.
“I don’t think Benedict will murder them,” he said. “Only those with horses can escape.” He looked at one of his knights. “Axien . . . ride back to Kingfountain. Tell them we’ve abandoned Dunmanis and are heading to Glosstyr.”
The knight balked. “My lord, your life is more important than this news. Do not send me away. It’s my duty to protect you.”
“It is your duty to do as I command!” barked the king. His eyes flashed, but then the intensity guttered out. “Somehow you need to get past Wigant’s army. Do your best. Fulfill my command.”
Sir Axien looked stricken, but he nodded in capitulation.
Devon turned to Ransom. “You are my bodyguard. We fight from Glosstyr next with what little strength is there. The knights are scattered and bewildered. Leave a man to send word for all who are left to rally at Glosstyr Keep. Avoid Benedict’s army if they can. But we must ride now. Every moment we wait increases the chance we’ll be captured.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Ransom said. He turned to look at his small mesnie. “Dearley, you and Guivret ride with me. Dawson, fulfill the king’s orders. Gather as many knights as you can and meet us in Glosstyr.”
Dawson nodded and turned back to ride into the burning town. Those who would be riding to Glosstyr had already removed their armor, Dearley and Guivret included. If they were to flee the distance required to escape, they would need to travel as light as possible. The horses were already weary enough from the fighting of the day, and there were no fresh mounts. Every beast had been taken, some stolen, in the commotion.
With lances poised, they rode out of Dunmanis into the midmorning, reeking of smoke and determined to reach their destination swiftly. The king had six knights left from his guard and a half-dozen lesser nobles traveled with them, including Ransom’s brother, Marcus. It felt wonderful breathing clean air again, hearing the noise of birds and the thump of the hooves against dirt instead of cobblestones. Pervenshere River snaked on their left, but they rode away from it, leaving the Occitanians behind.
“My lord!” called one of the lesser nobles from behind.
Ransom turned in the saddle, and his stomach dropped when he saw men giving chase on horseback, their tunics that of the Lion.
The king looked back as well, recognition dawning in his eyes. “It’s him,” he declared over the wind rushing past them.
Ransom saw Benedict at the head of the pursuers, his beard noticeable, and his wild hair fanning out behind him. There was a reason they hadn’t fought any of the duke’s men during the fight. They’d come around from behind to cut off escape, and now their quarry was running for it. The trap had been sprung.
One of the king’s knights, Sir Thatcher, turned around and went to face their pursuers. He did this without being commanded to. His action was misinterpreted by a few of the others, who suddenly broke ranks and fled, abandoning the king. Ransom stayed alongside Devon, but he looked back. One of Benedict’s knights rode ahead and met the charge. He took the lance on the shield, and it shattered but didn’t dislodge him from the saddle. Sir Thatcher was quickly captured while Benedict continued his pursuit. He was farther ahead than his other men, coming at them with purpose and determination to halt the conflict quickly.
Ransom’s heart rushed in his chest. If Devon were captured, it would be the end of his reign and the end of Ransom’s hopes. He would never be allowed to marry Claire, and the Occitanians would have free range on Ceredigion. The heir the Fountain had spoken of might never be born. They were in the meadows now, rushing through the tall grass, trying to get a lead. But Benedict’s horse was fresher, and he was gaining on them. However, he’d separated himself from the rest of his men, leaving himself vulnerable.
The king gazed back at his son, a mixture of admiration and pain on his face. Ransom knew what he had to do. He barked Dearley’s name, causing him to turn his head.
“Protect the king and the prince!” he shouted. “Get them to Glosstyr!”
“What are you going to do?” Dearley demanded, eyes wide with surprise.
“I’m going to stop Bennett,” Ransom declared.
They were going at full gallop, and so Ransom had to convince the beast to slow before it could be turned. He wrestled with it a bit before turning around and plunging back the way they’d come. He met Marcus’s questioning gaze with a nod as he passed, then spurred his horse to ride hard at Benedict. Ransom positioned the lance, cradling it, preparing to take aim.
Benedict rushed headlong at him. He wore no helmet. In fact, Benedict didn’t even have armor, although his tunic was drenched from crossing the river. No doubt he and his men had doffed their armor before crossing in case any of them fell in. The man also had no lance, only a sword, and was thus utterly defenseless against his charge.
Fountain magic bubbled up inside Ransom again, sharpening his senses and lending him strength. The two were on a collision course, but this wasn’t Chessy. One of them could die. Ransom sensed the duke’s weakness. There was no armor protecting him from a lance. He’d ridden ahead foolishly, determined to capture his father. He’d jeopardized his own life in the process.
Ransom lowered the lance into position as his destrier picked up speed.
Memories battered at him in the crucial moment. Once again, he felt the strange cyclical nature of time. Years before, he’d ridden toward Auxaunce with Queen Emiloh, and they’d been chased by DeVaux’s men. The constable, Lord Rakestraw, hadn’t been wearing armor that day, and Ransom had watched as he’d been impaled on a lance.
Ransom knew that the queen would not want her son to be killed in the same way. And truthfully, the young man’s father wouldn’t want that either. Ransom had witnessed the king’s grief when the Younger King and Goff had died. No matter how strained their relationship was, Benedict was still his son. One of only two left.
“Are you going to kill me, Ransom?” Benedict shouted worriedly, seeing Ransom’s lance aimed right at him. “By the Lady’s legs, I’ve no lance!”
No one could have stopped Ransom from doing so. It was just the two of them facing each other, coming together like a clash of worlds.
Ransom felt the thrum of the Fountain in his heart. He couldn’t kill the prince. He knew it would be a wicked act. But he wouldn’t let the lad capture his father either.
“I won’t,” Ransom said as the two horses rushed at each other. “Let the Deep Fathoms take you where it will!”
He shifted his aim from Benedict’s chest to his horse at the last moment. The horse died on the spot, pierced by the lance in the breast. Ransom released the lance, which hadn’t shattered, and veered away. Looking over his shoulder, he watched as Benedict fell over the horse’s head to the ground with a jolt. The beast collapsed, but the duke rolled a few times before coming up again to his feet. Although clearly stunned and dizzy, he managed to find his sword in case Ransom came at him again.