Fate's Ransom(The First Argentines #4)

“Welcome, Lord Ransom,” said the knight, offering the familiar salute. “The king is expecting you.”

Ransom returned the salute and replied in Occitanian. “It is my privilege to come. Tell him I come in peace.”

All seemed in order. A few of the camp dwellers observed the newcomers with interest. Some with glares of hostility. They reached a huge pavilion set up at the end of the road, a triple-poled tent that was tall and broad and held three sections. He sensed Alix inside the pavilion, and knights wearing the badge of Estian stood guard outside. A dozen, perhaps. He saw others patrolling in the distance.

Ransom gazed at them warily. So far, the promises had been fulfilled. Still, Alix’s presence disturbed him. She might only be present because Estian was—the king probably brought her everywhere as his bodyguard—but it left him ill at ease.

When they reached the golden pavilion, Ransom dismounted, and Dearley and Dawson did the same. The latter had his hand on his sword hilt, and he sized up the guards with a look of disdain in his eyes. Dearley looked worried but tried to project strength. He brushed his shoulder against Ransom’s arm. “It seems harmless enough,” he said in a low voice.

Ransom looked at the guards. “Alix is here,” he said softly.

Dearley stiffened. “Do you think she’ll attack us?”

Ransom considered it for a moment before shaking his head. “I suspect she’s here to protect the king. I doubt he goes anywhere without her. Don’t eat anything. Don’t drink anything. Warn the men to be wary of her words. She has a way of persuading someone against their better judgment.”

“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.”