“I will,” Dearley said and took Dawson aside.
The pavilion opened, and Estian’s herald stepped forward. Ransom recognized the man, Moquet, his name was, from previous meetings. He looked older, more gnarled than the last time Ransom had seen him, but it had been some years.
“Welcome, Lord Ransom,” said Moquet in his language, bowing in deference to Ransom’s office. “The king awaits you within the pavilion. He has three knights and one lady attending him for protection. You may bring four of your choosing as well. The deconeus of the sanctuary of Our Lady at Rannes is here to witness the agreement and provide his blessing. Is that agreeable?”
Ransom’s stomach twisted with nervousness. “It is.”
Moquet bowed slightly. “Choose your guardians and follow me.”
Ransom nodded to Dearley and Dawson to accompany him. He looked at his other men and nodded to two of the young knights. Grinning at having been chosen, they followed the rest into the pavilion with Moquet.
It was a sumptuous structure with elaborate bronze partitions, designed with the Fleur-de-Lis, at the far end of the pavilion. King Estian sat on the sole chair, an ornate piece similar to a throne, which seemed fitting given the crown nested in his dark hair. He wore a hauberk beneath his royal tunic and had a sword belted to his waist. Behind the bronze works was a display of flowers that filled the pavilion with a pleasant smell.
Even so, he detected the subtle fragrance of lilac. Ransom sensed Lady Alix to the left, and when he looked, she stood in the opening connecting the main area to one of the pavilion’s other sections. She wore gold damask and looked at him with a dispassionate gaze. He recognized the strand of pearls wrapped around her wrist and the birthmark on the skin exposed by her bodice. As he looked at her, he felt a stab of desire, but it wasn’t as powerful as the flood of magical compulsion he’d experienced when Estian’s sister had tried to seduce him. He inclined his head to her, but she stared at him as if he were no more significant than an intruding moth. She was still dangerous—he could sense her skill and the poisons she kept with her.
“Would that we had time for a tournament,” King Estian said, rising from the chair. “Even after all these years, I should like to see you riding the lists once more, a lance pointed toward an awaiting shield. You were always a glory to watch, Lord Ransom.”
The flattery didn’t ease Ransom’s feelings. In fact, it made him more suspicious.
Estian was a handsome man who’d hardly aged other than a few streaks of gray in his otherwise dark hair. He’d heard the king had finally taken a wife, the daughter of one of his nobles, who was probably fifteen years younger than himself. He had a son and heir, a boy he’d named Lewis, after his father.
Ransom bowed slightly. “I come to see for myself if you truly seek peace with Ceredigion.”
“And it is most appropriate that your king should send his most adept and honorable knight to negotiate the terms. I have word from Lord Montfort that your meeting at Josselin was agreeable?”
“It was, my lord,” Ransom said. He noticed the deconeus, a white-haired man with sagging skin and watery blue eyes, dressed in his ceremonial vestments.
“I wish we could have held our meeting in Pree,” said Estian with a sly smile. “But unfortunately, the last time you were there, you stole something of great value to me.”
More unease rippled inside Ransom. “Is not murder more dishonorable?”
There was a flash of ire in Estian’s eyes, but he quickly subdued it and offered a genial smile. “What was lost has now been found. Let us put past grievances—which are many—behind us. Long has this conflict between our realms ended in nothing but bloodshed and ashes. Your king seeks to reclaim land his father once held, such as the duchy of La Marche, without paying homage for it. I seek to reclaim my father’s glory too, although all I wish for is for us to get our due—the subservience that is owed to us. Our motives are identical. Shall we not put aside our differences for a season?”
Ransom felt the tingling of Fountain magic begin to swell. It came from Lady Alix. His eyes narrowed with worry and suspicion. Why was she trying to influence the situation with her magic?
“I have come to discuss the terms you offered,” Ransom said, giving Alix a warning look to let her know he sensed her interference. She met his gaze without flinching and increased the power of her influence.
“Yes. I will give you Josselin if you will kneel before me and swear fealty to me as your rightful overlord.”
Ransom shifted his gaze at once to Estian. “It was my understanding that I would owe fealty to you for the castle alone.”
“Serve me, Ransom Barton,” said Estian with a coaxing tone.
Alix’s magic wove around him, entangling his senses, and he took an involuntary step backward. Although he’d fallen prey to her compulsions before, he understood what she could do now, and his own Fountain magic swelled, helping him resist the compulsion to kneel. Perhaps he was further empowered by his magic’s connection to loyalty—they were trying to force him to relinquish his, and he would not do it.
Sweat trickled down from his temple. “What trickery is this?” he answered. “I came to do homage just for the castle.”
“I will accept your homage,” said Estian. “But with it, you must pledge you will never attack me within my own lands. If your king starts a war and breaks the truce on this side of the land you call Westmarch, you will not join in the fighting, or else you forfeit Josselin on your honor.”
He narrowed his eyes. Brythonica was west of Westmarch. So was the Vexin. “Your Highness,” Ransom demurred, “this was not part of the truce. My king would never agree to such terms.”
“Your king was too cowardly to come himself,” said Estian flatly. “You are here to negotiate on his behalf. He’s authorized you to make this decision. Here are my terms. You are not to interfere if he breaks the truce and attacks anything west of Westmarch. I must insist upon this measure to protect Brythonica, which I have made an independent duchy. If your king attempts to lay claim to the duchess’s land, you will not join him. How does this compromise you?”
Perhaps he would have been swayed had he not felt Alix’s invading influence pushing him to accept. The argument was not without merit, but it felt dishonest and unreasonable for Estian to change the terms at the last moment. They were on the verge of peace, one that would last for years. Why threaten that?
“If you truly want peace, why change the terms?” Ransom challenged.
“We all want peace, Lord Ransom. Even you. Your knights are exhausted. Your children are without a father. The mercenaries haven’t been paid. There is no honor in your king. But I know you, Lord Ransom. I know that honor binds you. If you swear not to get involved, I will trust you to remain true to your word.”
He felt the overpowering urge to drop to his knee before Estian, but he knew where the feelings came from and refused to submit to them.
One of his knights, the youngest, went down on one knee. The sound of it rattled Ransom and drew his attention. He looked back and saw Dearley and Dawson were both conflicted. They looked from Ransom to Estian as if their souls were torn by a vicious inner conflict.
“I will accept the previous terms that you offered,” Ransom said, turning back to Estian. He glared at Alix once more. A small smile tilted her mouth.