“As would I,” Ransom said. “But I don’t trust Estian. Nor should you. He doesn’t keep his promises.”
“Neither does our king,” Dearley said under his breath.
Ransom gave him a scolding look, and Dearley looked away, abashed. Still, as unwise as it was to say such a thing aloud, there was no denying it was true. Jon-Landon was not the kind of king who encouraged greatness in his followers—if anything, the opposite was true. Men like Faulkes, who was brave if power hungry, were encouraged to pursue their basest impulses, and loyalty was not rewarded unless it came from a favorite. Favorites were chosen capriciously and changed often.
They took the road up the hillside to the castle, arriving at the gates, where the guards at least looked more alert. Ransom had traveled with fifteen of his knights, and Dearley took command to find them a place to bed down. The courtyard was crowded with baggage carts and horses. A flag bearing the Triple Lion hung listlessly from its pole. Ransom tugged off his gloves and stuffed them in his belt. His tunic was dust-spattered, and the links of metal in his hauberk jangled as he walked into the castle. It was dusk, and the smell of cooking venison made his stomach growl.
When he reached the great hall, he took in the celebratory atmosphere—the sound of lutes and pipes, the sight of a juggler performing feats of acrobatics to entertain everyone. He paused at the entryway to see who else was present. Faulkes, the new duke of Southport, was there, nibbling on a fleshy bit of bone, a serving girl trapped on his lap. Whenever she tried to stand, he kept pulling her down. It made Ransom want to punch him in the face. The ambitious captain had won a seat in the king’s council through his flattery and machinations. Ransom still held a seat on the council, but he wasn’t the favorite, and the king never lost an opportunity to communicate as much. The constant action in the field also kept him away from the palace for long stretches of time.
Duke Kiskaddon was also there, looking bleary-eyed and disdainful with a goblet in his hand. When one of the king’s dogs came snuffling by his feet, he gave it a quick jab with the tip of his boot. His gesture wasn’t noticed by the king, whose attention was fixed on a woman with a plunging bodice seated near him. Ransom didn’t recognize her, but she looked uncomfortable. The queen was still at Kingfountain, the king’s antics likely unknown to her. Then Ransom spied Lady Deborah hastening toward the door to join him.
She was a diminutive woman with graying hair. Although shrewd enough not to gainsay the king too often, she always gave him worthy advice.
“I’m glad you’re here, Lord Ransom,” she said. “Do you come with news from Estian?”
“I do,” Ransom said, looking at her in surprise.
“An Espion arrived this morning with word that an Occitanian herald had been to your camp yesterday. The king wondered if you were dealing treacherously. He was about to order his knights to summon you, but I persuaded him that you’d come on your own. Thank you for proving me right.” She gave him a relieved smile.
“I know he’s watching me,” Ransom said. Indeed, he’d felt Jon-Landon’s eyes on his back constantly these last years. “Have you heard any news from the North?”
“Your sister is doing well, and so is your nephew, but the Atabyrions keep menacing the shore. Duke James does the same in retaliation to keep them guessing. A peace accord with Occitania would be timely right now. Is that why you’ve come?”
“There he is!” boomed the king’s voice from across the hall. “The man himself. The most loyal, dutiful, Duke of Glosstyr! Raise a cup to welcome the faithful!” Although the words were flattering, the tone in which they were spoken revealed the king’s disdain. Several raised their cups in mock salute. Lady Deborah bowed her head to him, her expression shuttered once more.
Ransom strode into the hall. Kiskaddon perked up, giving him a smile of true welcome, but Faulkes lifted his cup to the insulting toast, malice in his eyes. Using the duke’s moment of distraction, the girl managed to escape from his lap, and he frowned in annoyance at having lost her. His expression was anything but welcoming.
“How goes the conflict?” Jon-Landon asked, lowering his cup. His fine clothes matched the decorations of the hall. There were too many torches burning, a wasted expense. Fine behavior from the young man who’d once given a pretty speech about the wastefulness of Lord Longmont when King Benedict was away at war. A stag was roasting on a spit in the hearth and Ransom’s stomach grumbled again at the sight and smell.
“I’ve told you before, my lord,” Ransom answered. “No progress can be made in the struggle. We lack the men-at-arms to drive them out of their castles, and they suffer from the same limitations. We’re at an impasse.”
“We have sufficient mercenaries,” countered the king. “We need bold action, strong leadership.”
“Your mercenaries haven’t been paid in over a fortnight,” Ransom declared. “Many are threatening to sack our sanctuaries and steal what they were promised.”
Jon-Landon’s face flashed with anger. “Perhaps you are being too lenient with them, my lord duke. Anyone who threatens it should be bound to a canoe and thrown over the falls!”
“They’re Brugian, my lord. They don’t respect our ways. They’re hungry, tired, and want to be paid.”
“Then pay them,” Jon-Landon said. “Surely you can bridge the gap until the treasury releases the funds. It’s none of my doing.” The last bit was a total lie. Ransom had heard the king deliberately withheld payment because he was loath to part with his livres.
“Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to do so, my lord. I must pay my own men their wages.”
Jon-Landon lifted his jeweled goblet and slurped from it. “Did you come all this way to complain, Lord Ransom? Surely not.”
“No, my lord. You asked how the war was going, and I told you honestly and bluntly. But I come bearing news. An offer of a truce from King Estian.”
Jon-Landon’s eyes flashed with interest. Faulkes scowled, but Kiskaddon leaned forward eagerly. There were lesser nobles gathered as well, the king’s barons, and all eyes went to Ransom.
“If he wants to stop the bloodshed, then he must depart Westmarch. I’m not giving up my father’s land. Land which belongs, by right and law, to me.”
Ransom let out a slow breath. “As you know, King Estian says the duchy was part of Occitania originally. Right now, it serves neither of us. The people are suffering. It is the most fertile land—”
“I know this already, Lord Ransom,” said the king, cutting him off. “Tell me his offer.”
“A two-year truce. Neither kingdom brings their armies into the disputed lands. It is not too late to plant for winter wheat. We share the harvest equally. Each side disbands its mercenaries, which will also save money. After two years, we try to negotiate a permanent peace accord.”
Jon-Landon looked skeptical. “I think he’s bluffing. Testing us for weakness. If we agree to this, he’ll attack us when our guard is down. Maybe it’s the right time to press even harder.”
Ransom gritted his teeth. “The mercenaries do not want a pitched battle. It’s too risky. If they’re dead, they cannot collect their wages.”