“And this is the man you would have me die for?” Bannagran asked. “And this is the king you would die for?”
“My laird!”
“Deliver the message,” Bannagran said in threatening, even tones. “Or I will chop your head off, stuff the parchment in your mouth, and have your head deliver it for me.”
The captain blanched and stormed out.
“See that he takes the leaders of his troublesome legion with him,” Bannagran said softly to Master Reandu, who stood beside his throne.
Reandu nodded. “And send the next brigade in to speak with Laird Bannagran?”
Bannagran nodded. “Your monks are on the roads east and north with the same message?” he asked.
“I wrote three copies for you, did I not?” Reandu replied with a smile. “I will fetch the brigade, but they all know your rousing speech by now, of course,” Reandu said.
“And most welcome it.”
The monk patted Bannagran’s strong shoulder and scurried out the door. Bannagran settled back in his throne and rubbed his weary face, stopping short when he heard clapping from the back corner of the room. He turned and stared at the flutter of some drapes, and then the Highwayman strode into plain view.
The few sentries in the room bristled, but Bransen ignored them as he walked over to stand before the Laird of Pryd.
“Do you ever bother with the announcement of your arrival anymore?” the laird asked.
“I wished to view your efforts without influencing them.”
“Where is Gwydre?”
“That’s what I came to tell you.” Bransen took a seat on the hearth bench to the side of the throne. “I have been all through Pryd Town this morning,” he explained. “You have welcomed those forces given you by Yeslnik as if they were citizens of your holding. And you have split them among your own ranks and among the homes of the townsfolk.”
“You came here to state that which you have witnessed for weeks now?” Bannagran asked. “Was I to field them in hot tents through the summer, while Yeslnik ordered me to march and to stay, to march again and to turn about?”
“None of which you have done.”
“In the end, I am where Yeslnik decided he most needs me.”
“You need not worry over Laird Ethelbert,” Bransen said.
Bannagran tried not to show that he cared.
“Ethelbert is dead,” Bransen explained. “His generals believed that the messenger you sent was the culprit.”
Now the laird looked truly perplexed.
“Dame Gwydre and I met with them when last we left you,” Bransen explained. He laughed at the absurdity of it all, but as soon as he heard a commotion out by the small castle’s door, his expression grew deadly serious. “You weaken their loyalty to King Yeslnik and strengthen their love for Bannagran and for Pryd Town.”
Bannagran didn’t disagree, didn’t even blink.
“How many have left for Delaval City over these weeks?” Bransen asked. “A third?”
“Less.”
Bransen smiled and brought his hands up to clap his approval quietly. Then he melted away behind the draperies as a group of forty Delaval soldiers was escorted into the room.
Laird Bannagran’s sermon sounded as music in the Highwayman’s ears. Bannagran didn’t quite demand fealty and didn’t quite threaten imprisonment, but his point was unmistakable as he assured these warriors—men and women who had come to trust him as their leader—that they were now fully considered as soldiers of the garrison of Pryd Town.
“We are the greatest legion that has taken the field in this war,” Bannagran said to them, and though not so long before the proud Delaval warriors might have taken that assessment as a slight, now they were honored by their inclusion in the elite legion.
“I have watched you carefully these months,” Bannagran went on. “Through dispiriting marches that lead not to battle but only to further marches! But you did not waver and did not falter. I am blessed to have been given the finest of legions to make my own.
“Do not doubt,” he said suddenly, sharply, and he rose from his chair and stabbed his finger at them, “that if I deemed you unworthy, I would have sent you away, as others have gone. There is no room in Pryd’s garrison for the weak or the weak of will. But I accept you and am honored to lead you.”
Peeking out from behind the drapes, Bransen couldn’t contain his admiring smile, for he could see the truth clearly displayed on the faces of every warrior standing before Laird Bannagran.
They would fight for him.
They would die for him.
Not for King Yeslnik, but for Bannagran.
TWENTY-SIX
Convergence
Even as Bannagran’s courier departed Pryd Town, a second messenger arrived in Delaval City, this one from Laird Milwellis.
“The riddle of Dame Gwydre’s elusiveness is solved,” proclaimed Milwellis’s man. “The Laird of Palmaristown has discovered her immoral treachery, wasting the souls of spirit-walking monks as she flees, ever flees, in fear of him.”
“And what does this mean?” King Yeslnik demanded, trying to hold back his enthusiasm . . . for surely the courier was nearly jumping out of his boots with excitement.
“The glorious Laird of Palmaristown will have her now, in short order, and the northland will be secured. We have her!” the man declared, his grin nearly taking in his ears. “Now that we know her tactics, we have tricked her into a grave mistake. She believes that we have left our flank exposed and so she runs to our south and west, toward this very city!”
Yeslnik’s eyes went wide at that, more out of fear than anticipation.
“She intends to pass Laird Milwellis by in a swift flight and then turn north to try to strike at Palmaristown,” the courier quickly clarified, “for she has not the strength of forces to do battle with Laird Milwellis and surely not to threaten the high walls of Delaval City.”
Yeslnik tried not to show it, but all in the room saw his clear relief.
“So Laird Milwellis will turn and catch her at last,” Yeslnik said, trying to recover his stature. “It has taken him far too long to be rid of the inconvenience that is Gwydre.”
“She is fleet, and though we will use her secret sight against her, we cannot fully blind her,” the courier replied.
“What does that mean?”
“Catching her will be no easy task for one large force, and Laird Milwellis does not wish to split his legions too thin against a dangerous enemy.”
“You claimed that you had her,” Yeslnik scolded.
“We do, my king, when you come forth.”
Wearing a perplexed expression, Yeslnik had no response.
“Come forth in all your glory,” Milwellis’s man explained. “A straight march along the course described.” He held up a parchment and unrolled it to reveal a map of Honce, complete with representations of the major forces in play: Milwellis, Yeslnik, Gwydre, and Bannagran.
“She is trapped,” the man went on. “As she passes, likely this very day, Laird Milwellis will turn his force and lengthen his line north and east of her. When you come forth, so, too, will the western route be blocked. To the south lie Pryd Town and Laird Bannagran. Dame Gwydre has nowhere to run.”
Before Yeslnik could respond, Olym blurted from behind, “All glory to King Yeslnik!”
He turned to regard his plump wife.
“This is your moment, my beloved champion,” she said quietly. “Gwydre will be ensnared before all of Delaval’s power, with nowhere to run. She will surrender or be slaughtered to a warrior, and word of your victory will spread throughout the kingdom, and none will dare oppose you!”
“Cannot Milwellis finish this witch?” Yeslnik asked, as much to Olym as to the courier.
Olym rushed from her chair to Yeslnik’s side and whispered into his ear. “Beware, my love! If all glory is to Milwellis, will he claim more for Palmaristown and for himself? He is your general. Do not make of him a king!”
Yesl
nik blanched at that notion and turned back to the courier. He composed himself quickly and looked past the man to his commanders, standing in lines to either side of the carpet leading from the door to his dais.
“Prepare the legions!” he commanded in regal and powerful tones, and a great cheer went up in the great hall.
The courier’s smile widened even more, and he bowed again and again, repeating, “My king!” with each genuflection.
Separate holdings once more?” Bransen asked incredulously. “That is your message to King Yeslnik and Milwellis and Ethelbert dos Entel?”
“Fewer and greater holdings,” Reandu answered for Bannagran, who sat staring coldly at Bransen.
“Independent kingdoms for Yeslnik, for the Laird of Ethelbert dos Entel, for Gwydre, and for Milwellis?” asked Bransen, shaking his head with every word.
“Bound by the common Church of Blessed Abelle,” Reandu was quick to add.
“Bound only by gamesmanship and fear of alliance,” said Bransen. “And as it sorts, who will march first and against whom? This is no end to war but merely a pause as each king decides which rival he might most easily topple.”
“King Yeslnik will never accept it,” Master Reandu said.
“Then why would you propose such nonsense?” Bransen started to ask, but he let the end of the question drift away as it began to make sense.
“Because Laird Milwellis is an ambitious man and Laird Ethelbert, or his successor now, a nervous one,” Reandu explained.
Bransen paused and let that settle in his thoughts for a long while. “You seek to drive a wedge between Milwellis and Yeslnik,” he said. “Do you expect to prompt Milwellis to treason or just to force Yeslnik to see him and you in a new and threatening light?”
“Either would serve,” Bannagran answered.
“Then you do not expect your proposal to prove acceptable.”
“Of course not.”
“But why?” Bransen asked simply. Bannagran stared at him as if the answer should be obvious, and indeed it was, but Bransen wanted to hear it aloud.
“Dame Gwydre has already begun her run,” Bransen said. “I doubt I could be by her side in time to turn her away from this course she has chosen, as Milwellis will be quick to cut off her escape.”
“You should have informed me of her run before it began,” said Bannagran, and it was obvious to Bransen that he, too, was struggling to find a way to sort through this dangerous conflation of contradictory plans.
“We had no time. Milwellis had our advantage revealed, and, were we to delay, he would come to suspect that we knew of his revelation, and he would become suspicious of our every movement.” Bransen paused and blew a sigh, trying to find a way to resolve the awkwardly converging plans. “I could turn her south, perhaps, that she could run through Pryd Holding and out to the open south ahead of Milwellis and Yeslnik.”
“You believe that Yeslnik will come forth from Delaval City?” Bannagran asked.
“Milwellis knows that he cannot catch us alone. The bait is clear and the hook disguised.”
Bannagran looked to Reandu, then stared off into the distance, plotting.
“You quickly travel great distances with Dame Gwydre,” Bannagran said to Bransen.
“A trick of gemstone magic and my Jhesta Tu training,” said Bransen.
“Can you catch up to Reandu’s monk on the north road?”
“Brother Castingay,” Reandu added. “He left this morning.”
Bransen shrugged. “I believe I can with ease.”
“Can you deliver him quickly to Milwellis’s camp?” asked Bannagran.
Bransen, his expression curious, did not respond.
“Do so,” Bannagran bade him. “And tell Brother Castingay to inform Laird Milwellis that King Yeslnik has received the same offer and that I expect the king will accept, though he will surely recall all his legions from both Milwellis and Bannagran.”
Bransen, puzzled but starting to figure it out, looked to Reandu.
“Brother Castingay is traveling openly along the road,” the monk explained.
“And when I have done this?” Bransen asked Bannagran. “Would you have me return to you? To Gwydre? To turn her south to Pryd Town?”
“That option always remains,” Bannagran replied, and his voice was full of confidence again, and the hints of a smile grew at the edges of his mouth. “But not yet. Return to me in time but first scout well the road to Delaval City. Let us see if Yeslnik comes forth to Milwellis’s call. Let us learn if he has the belly for a fight.”
“And what will Bannagran do?” Bransen dared ask.
“I will decide where I want to win the war,” the Bear of Honce replied.
Delaval City had not seen so grand a procession in the memory of anyone alive. Trumpeters lined the main boulevard all the way from the castle to the city’s eastern gate. Every rank, every line, marched in perfect harmony, boots stomping the cobblestones in cadence.
A legion of foot soldiers led the way, twenty abreast and three hundred deep. Then came the elite cavalry in shining bronze, horses and riders armored, spear tips gleaming in the morning sun.
The rolling thunder of the chariots followed, their ranks separated by a line of gilded coaches, the king himself in the most decorated one of all. He sat atop its roof on a throne glittering with gold leaf, occasionally tipping his hand in recognition of the thousands who lined the wide street to bid him farewell.
From the high balcony of Castle Delaval, Queen Olym watched them all go, and Yeslnik made sure to acknowledge her, and when he did, any in the crowd who did not cheer wildly were sure to be reminded of their place by the many soldiers who roamed about the gathering, iron poles in hand.
Behind the king and the coaches of his entourage came the rest of the chariots, and behind them three more legions of footmen, their long lines interspersed with an endless stream of wagons full of salted fish and other supplies. By the time the last of Yeslnik’s army passed through the city gates, the sun was low in the west and the king was long out of sight of the city, miles along the road.
As soon as he had crossed under the gates, Yeslnik had retreated inside his armored coach, and his personal guards, several score of veteran warriors, stayed close to him in the march and formed an iron ring about him in the encampment that night. His day of final victory was at hand, and he would take no chances.
Despite the many sentries, though, he was truly a lonely man. He missed his wife terribly. She had been his strength these last weeks, prodding him on to greater heights of glory, rewarding him for his courage with memorable nights of lovemaking. This was the first time they had been apart in months, the king realized as he settled in to sleep and found that he could not.
Olym was his only friend. He had sent for her coach; he needed her beside him, lending him courage through this great battle, but she would not arrive until the next day, at the least.
She was his only friend. That unsettling thought followed him to his bed. He recalled his uncle’s court; Laird Delaval had surrounded himself with trusted and loyal warriors, with men and women he called his friends. Not so for Yeslnik. His two primary generals, Milwellis and Bannagran, were lairds of their respective holdings. Should he bring them to Delaval City? Garrison Commander Bannagran, perhaps?
No, rather Milwellis, he decided, for Bannagran was too old and surly to share in the benefits Yeslnik might know as uncontested King of Honce. For all of his love for Olym, the thought of the pleasures of many pretty young ladies was not unpleasant. Yes, when this business with Dame Gwydre was finished, he would invite Milwellis to Delaval City as his chief advisor, as his garrison commander, and as his friend.
He wanted a friend . . . many friends, he decided. He would gather a court of nobles, young and randy, and together they would enjoy the pleasures of a bevy of young and pretty ladies.
An image of a scowling Olym rattled his senses as he lay in his bed.
But King Yeslnik shook that away. He was the K
ing of Honce. His every desire would be met and by whomever he chose. Olym would have to accept that.
He was the King of Honce.
But he was a lonely man.
That was most amazing, Highwayman!” Brother Castingay said to Bransen when they ended their bounding run, the vast encampment of Laird Milwellis in clear sight in the valley below. “Would that Master Reandu had afforded me a malachite, that I might attempt such a prance back to Pryd Town when my duties here are finished!”
“We would not have Milwellis and Father De Guilbe learning of this property of the gemstone,” Bransen said. He thought, but didn’t add, that Castingay would do well to never attempt such a prance on his own. Only Bransen’s unique combination of qualities and training afforded him such freedom. Any other monk running as he did, with those great and high leaps with every stride, would surely shatter his ankle upon landing or smash into a tree or a thick wall to a crashing demise.
“You know your duty here?” Bransen asked.
Brother Castingay held up the rolled parchment, sealed in wax with the crest of Pryd. “And King Yeslnik will accept the proposal of Laird Bannagran,” he said.
Bransen nodded, though he still wasn’t quite certain of Bannagran’s intent here or of how it might all play out.
“Am I to remain with Laird Milwellis or return to Pryd?” Castingay asked.
Bransen considered the likely road ahead for Milwellis. “Be away from this camp as soon as you are able,” he replied. “The next week will be filled with battle and death. Follow the stench of rotting bodies if you choose to join in or find a small village nearby to house you through the chaos. But do not stay with Milwellis unless your heart is for Father De Guilbe and unless you have the call to do battle with your own brethren of Pryd.”
“Do you believe that Laird Milwellis will war with Laird Bannagran?” Castingay asked breathlessly.
Bransen just smiled and shrugged. He wasn’t sure, but he hoped that it would come to that. Indeed. He left the man with a clear road to Milwellis’s lines and bounded away to the southwest, traveling many miles before settling beneath the low-hanging branches of a wide pine for a good night’s rest . . . in sight of a second vast army, the garrison of Delaval City.
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