in front of him, the corners held down by cups, and several knights stood before him. Most of the soldiers in camp, Ransom included, were clad in armor, but these men had been off gathering information. They were wearing merchant tunics to conceal their hauberks and cloaks to hide their swords. It was the evening report from the outriders.
Sir Harrold was speaking as Ransom entered.
“Some men saw us along the Westmarch border,” he said to the king. “I think they were Occitanian, for they fled quickly.”
“Did you give chase?” asked the king with interest.
“Aye, my lord. Just for a bit, to rouse their blood a little. They rode hard, and there was no chance of catching them before they could get to the safety of one of King Estian’s castles. They know we’re on the move.”
“Of course they do!” snapped the king. “Well done, Harrold. Sir Axien, what news from the Vexin road?”
“I spoke to some farmers about three leagues west of here. They’ve not seen any soldiers, except the knights who passed this way with Sir Ransom recently. They’ve no idea we’re coming.”
The king smirked and nodded. “Good. Sir Rawlin, what news from Brythonica?”
“I delivered your writ to the border guards,” answered Sir Rawlin in a slow, plodding tone. He was a bearlike man, even larger than Ransom, but slack of speech. “Received no answer, so I came back.”
The king glanced at Lord Kinghorn. “What do you make of it, Bryon?”
“Goff is wary. He’s probably deciding what to do. He might wait and see what happens first.”
“I agree,” said the king. “Churlish boy. Now that he has an heir, he’s more careful, more likely to stay within his own borders. An obedient son would have sent his guards straightaway, to answer the summons at least.”
“Maybe his men are defending the border with the Vexin?” Bryon suggested.
Ransom agreed. The two brothers had a history of rivalry. Being the third son, Goff had never presumed to rule the kingdom. Now that he was in line after Benedict, his fortunes had altered, especially since he had an heir, and his brother did not. He’d be very cautious.
The king shook his head. “Even so, he could have spared someone. Maybe he’s sent a messenger to warn his brother? These faithless sons of mine. Perhaps I’ll just give the throne to Jon-Landon and be done with their schemes.” His good humor had soured. “What news from the east, Sir Thatcher?”
The final report was given by a knight with golden hair and a handsome face. “Nothing of note, my lord. Duke Wigant’s forces are coming, as requested. The duke is having a bit of a problem with his joints of late, but he’s coming anyway. He’s making progress.”
The mention of Sir James put a bitter taste in Ransom’s mouth. As far as he was concerned, his school companion had hastened Devon the Younger’s downfall, something he would never be punished for. He felt someone’s gaze on him, and looked up to see Lord Kinghorn watching him carefully. His kinsman knew about his past with James, how the two had clashed since they were knights training in his household.
Careful not to allow his feelings to show, Ransom nodded to Lord Kinghorn.
“How much progress? Where is he?” asked the king.
“We met his outrider at Shackletown,” said Sir Thatcher.
The king considered that for a moment. “He’s farther ahead than I suspected. Good. That means he’ll arrive in time. Excellent work, men. Get some food and rest. Start your journeys before dawn.”
The knights grunted in agreement and dispersed from the tent, leaving Ransom, Lord Bryon, and Dukes Ashel and Rainor behind. The force of three duchies would soon be joined by a fourth.
After the others had left, Ashel grabbed one of the cups holding the map down and drank from it. He had a long beard streaked with gray and the cold eyes of a man used to battle and carnage. “When will you tell the men where we’re really going?” he asked with a glint in his eye.
Devon shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Have you chosen a target yet?” asked Duke Rainor. He had copper-colored hair and a matching beard. Although he was only in his midthirties, he’d grown fat during the years of mercenaries fighting the battles. Ransom didn’t need his Fountain magic to see his weaknesses.
The king moved to the map and pointed to a place in Occitania. He looked at each one of them in turn. “Say nothing,” he whispered.
The spot he pointed to on the