As they traveled, they witnessed the ravages of the constant state of war, from the burnt fields to the stumps left behind after the trees were axed down for firewood, to the looks of fear in villagers’ eyes as the knights rode past. Was this what things had been like during the tumult between Devon the Elder and King Gervase? In those days, Ceredigion had nearly been rent apart from within. This time, the damage had mostly been inflicted by foreign enemies.
One evening, as they camped for the night, sitting around a small fire for warmth, Dearley said solemnly, “I hope this leads to a lasting peace. Every year I look forward to the coming of winter because at least the fighting will have to stop for a season.”
Ransom nodded in agreement, tossing a fresh stick into the crackling blaze. He, too, enjoyed the long winters in Legault at Connaught. Watching his twin sons wrestle and chase each other through the castle. His daughter Sibyl had taken an interest in fletching arrows instead of needlework. Her hair matched her mother’s, a lovely mix of brown and crimson. Then there was the littlest one, Keeva. He’d missed so much of their childhood already, performing his duties to the king. Longing coursed through him at the thought of them, at the image of Claire, her hair unbound. Yes, a large part of him hoped that peace would happen.
“I think we’ll reach Josselin tomorrow,” Dearley said. “Elodie will be jealous. I wish I could bring her back there. We have so many fond memories of it. We were practically children when we fell in love.”
Ransom smiled. “You were afraid that I was going to marry her.”
“Why shouldn’t I have feared it? We were your wards, and you know the way of things. Besides, you were the famous knight, in favor with the Elder King! I was no one.”
“You were my first knight. And you’ve proven yourself time and again.”
Dearley blushed. “I still don’t feel adequate, but I try not to disappoint you.”
Ransom shook his head. “You’ve never disappointed me, Dearley.”
“Oh? What about that first battle when you got skewered by a lance because you were defending me?”
The Raven scabbard had saved Ransom that day. Dearley still didn’t know about it. It was a gift from the Fountain, and he’d kept it secret, telling as few people as possible. “I’ve had worse.”
A knight walked up to their fire. “Sorry to interrupt, my lord,” he said. “The patrol just returned. There’s no one within a league of us in any direction.”
“That’s good news,” Dearley said, cocking his head.
Ransom believed the report. His Fountain magic usually warned him of danger, but its influence had been more difficult to feel since serving Jon-Landon’s interests. The king’s wavering moods, distrust, and lack of compassion had created an antipathy within Ransom that strained his connection to the magic. He had respected the previous kings he’d served in different ways. But not Jon-Landon. He always felt unsafe when he was with the king.
“You can rest easy tonight, my lord,” said the knight.
Ransom gave him a salute, and the man walked away.
“Perhaps Estian truly does want peace,” Dearley said hopefully.
“We’ll have a better idea by tomorrow.”
They reached Josselin castle by early evening the following day. The sight of the Fleur-de-Lis pennant hanging above the castle made him frown. Did he really wish to treat with Estian? To promise him even a shred of loyalty? The night the castle had been taken, Ransom had very nearly taken it back—only Estian had threatened to hang the prisoners who’d been taken with the castle, one by one, if Ransom didn’t withdraw his men. He still begrudged the king that and many other affronts. Estian touted the honorable code of Virtus in his tournament circuits, but his court was rotten on the inside, like a piece of spoiled fruit.
As they advanced, they saw soldiers patrolling the battlement walls. He reached out with his Fountain magic, trying to sense the defenders’ intention. Was this a trap?
He felt a ripple in his magic, but it was not a warning. It felt like . . . sympathy. The feelings of unease he’d been brooding on since the meeting with Jon-Landon faded. There was no sense of the poisoner Alix either. He would have known if she were there.
All of his men were wearing armor. It might be a diplomatic mission, but there was little to no trust between the opposing factions.
“Let’s go a little closer,” Ransom said, nudging Dappled forward. The town looked to be thriving, and he heard the bleating of sheep from across the river. The familiar smell of tallow from large cooking vats lingered in the air. As they passed, he heard the townsfolk speaking Occitanian. Those who had once lived here had fled to Glosstyr.
When they reached the gates, he was surprised to find them open. It was unheard of for a castle to lower its guard in the presence of a strong force.
A man stood in the center of the courtyard, hands clasped behind his back. He wore a tunic with the Raven badge. His dark hair was cut short in the Occitanian fashion, and he had no beard—another sign of his origins. Ransom didn’t recognize him, but he did recognize the badge, which matched his own scabbard. It was the symbol of Brythonica. The man wore a chain hauberk beneath his tunic but no further armor. A bastard sword was strapped to his hip.
Ransom reined in before the gate, pausing to look up at the portcullis.
“I am the Duke of Glosstyr,” Ransom said. “Are you Estian’s emissary?”
“I am Lord Guyaume Montfort,” replied the man with a strong accent.
Ransom knew the name, although he’d never met the man. This was Constance’s second husband. He felt another subtle ripple from the Fountain as the man looked at him with what appeared to be genuine respect.
“I know you are a man of your word,” said Lord Montfort. “My wife assures me that you can be trusted. You’ve brought a sizable host with you, which I cannot allow inside the castle by order of my king. But you are permitted to bring a guard with you, and the castle gates will remain open during our negotiations. Is that agreeable to you, Lord Ransom?”
“How many defenders do you have at Josselin?”
Lord Montfort scratched his neck. “It would be unwise to tell you in case you decide to attack the castle by force.”
“Just as it would be unwise of me to bring in a small guard that could easily be overwhelmed,” Ransom countered. There was no belligerence on either side. He felt the knight was sizing him up, so he did the same, using his magic to test the man’s abilities. They were formidable. Montfort was a skilled warrior, but he was someone Ransom felt certain he could beat.
“That is true. Do I have your word that you will not provoke an attack?”
“Yes,” Ransom said sincerely.
Lord Montfort studied him again, his gray eyes serious and penetrating. “I hold you to it, then. I have only fifty guarding the castle right now. The rest have been withdrawn back to Pree on leave. My king anticipates that we will come to an agreement. I hope he is not mistaken.”
“I will bring two dozen with me, then,” said Ransom. “The rest will remain in the courtyard.”
“That is agreeable. Shall we discuss terms?”
Ransom nodded.
Lord Montfort bowed slightly and gestured for them to enter the castle peaceably. Ransom looked to Dearley to arrange the escort, and his first knight quickly chose twenty-four men to accompany them, fifty more to stand at the gate, and sent the rest off to buy food for the group.