Red. Red, the colour of the Regency, scrawled over with the iconography of the border forts, growing, fluttering. These were the banners of Ravenel. Not only the banners, but men and riders, flowing over the hilltop like wine from an over-full cup, staining and darkening its slopes, and spreading.
By now, columns were visible. It was possible to roughly estimate numbers, five or six hundred riders, two lots of hundred-and-fifty-man infantry columns. Judging from what Damen had seen of the lodgings at the fort, this was in fact Ravenel’s full contingent of horse, and a lesser but substantial portion of its infantry. His own horse moved skittishly under him.
In the next moment, it seemed, the slopes to their right also grew figures, much closer—close enough to recognise the shape and livery of the men. It was the detachment that Touars had sent to Breteau, who had, a day ago, departed. Not gone, but here, waiting. Add another two hundred to the number.
Damen could feel the nervous tension of the men behind him, surrounded by colours that half of them down to their bones distrusted, and outnumbered ten to one.
Ravenel’s forces on the hill began to split into a widening v-shape.
‘They’re moving to flank us. Have they mistaken us for an enemy troop?’ said Jord, confused.
‘No,’ said Laurent.
‘There is still a path open to us, to the north,’ said Damen.
‘No,’ said Laurent.
A parcel of men detached itself from Ravenel’s main column, and began making right for them.
‘You two,’ said Laurent, and dug his heels into his horse.
Damen and Jord followed, and they rode out over the long fields of grass, to meet Lord Touars and his men.
In form and protocols, from the beginning, it was wrong. It happened sometimes between two forces that there was some parley between messengers, or meeting between principals, for final discussion of conditions or posturing before a fight. Galloping across the field, Damen felt down to his bones unease at the assertion of wartime arrangements, made worse by the size of the party they rode to meet, and the men it contained.
Laurent reined in. The party was led by Lord Touars, beside him Councillor Guion, and Enguerran, the Captain. Behind them were twelve mounted soldiers.
‘Lord Touars,’ said Laurent.
There was no preamble. ‘You have seen our forces. You will come with us.’
Laurent said, ‘I take it that since our last meeting, you have received word from my uncle.’
Lord Touars said nothing, as impassive as the cloaked, armoured riders behind him, so that it was Laurent, uncharacteristically, who had to break the silence and speak.
Laurent said, ‘Come with you to what purpose?’
Lord Touars’s scarred face was cold with contempt. ‘We know you have paid bribes to Vaskian raiders. We know you are in thrall to the Akielon, and that you have conspired with Vask to weaken your country with raids and border attacks. The good village of Breteau fell to one such raid. At Ravenel, you will be tried and executed for treason.’
‘Treason,’ said Laurent.
‘Can you deny that you have under your protection the men responsible for the attacks, and that you have coached them in an attempt to throw blame onto your uncle?’
The words fell like the blow from an axe. You can outplay him, Damen had said, but it had been long weeks since he had faced the power of the Regent. It occurred to him, chillingly, that the captured men could indeed have been coached for this moment, just not by Laurent. Laurent, who had therefore brought Touars the very rope that would hang him.
‘I can deny anything I like,’ said Laurent, ‘in the absence of proof.’
‘He has proof. He has my testimony. I saw everything.’ A rider pushed out intrusively from behind the others, shoving back the hood of his cloak as he spoke. He looked different in an aristocrat’s armour, with his dark curls primped and brushed, but the pretty mouth was familiar, like the antagonistic voice and the bellicose look in his eyes.
It was Aimeric.
Reality tilted; a hundred innocuous moments showing themselves in a different light. As understanding came like a cold weight to Damen’s stomach, Laurent was already moving—not to make some kind of polished retort—but wrenching his horse’s head around, planting his mount in front of Jord’s, and saying, ‘Go back to the troop. Now.’
Jord’s skin was blanched, as though he had just suffered a blow from a sword. Aimeric watched with his chin up, but gave Jord no particular attention. Jord’s face was stripped raw with betrayal and stricken guilt as he dragged his gaze from Aimeric and met Laurent’s hard, unrelenting eyes.
Guilt—a breach of faith that cut to the heart of their troop. How long had Aimeric been missing, and how long, out of misplaced loyalty, had Jord been covering up for him?
Damen had always thought Jord a good Captain, and he was still, in that moment: white-faced, Jord made no excuses, and demanded none from Aimeric, but did as he was ordered, in silence.