The knights of Gervase’s mesnie dismounted and began preparing for his arrival in the tent. Squires tended the horses. Gervase loved his mesnie, these men who had fought with him and for him for so many years. Yet the sight of some of the younger faces brought back painful memories of those who had died. How many from his original mesnie were left—five or six? His brain felt like bread pudding. He couldn’t think straight. Although he mourned the loss of those who had come before, these knights were young and ambitious. They’d tied their hopes to him, for a lord owed his mesnie rewards for their faithful service. Some had defected to the Argentine brat, but those who had stayed were loyal. Tried and trusted. He cared for them as if they were his own sons.
After dismounting, he limped toward his tent, tugging off his gauntlets as he went. Of course he’d ridden to the Heath fully armored. Even though his men offered him protection, he couldn’t risk an ambush or a Gaultic archer skulking in the woods with a longbow, just waiting for an opportunity. Gervase didn’t have the manpower to rid the woods of bandits and thieves. Every boy age fifteen or more was fighting on one side or the other. He caught a glimpse of Marshall Barton as he approached his pavilion and quickly went inside.
Lord Gilbert was there, wearing a hauberk and gloves but no battle armor. As a couple of knights hastened to remove Gervase’s armor, he grunted and looked to Gilbert. “Did Barton do anything when he saw the siege engines coming?”
Gilbert pursed his lips and shrugged. He folded his arms, looking at one of the burning lanterns. “His men saw us building the gallows today. It’s right in front of the camp, my lord. He thinks you’re bluffing. He’s not sent a single word.”
From the way he said it, it was clear Gilbert thought so too.
The buckles were undone one by one and the straps loosened, helping Gervase breathe properly again. He was getting too old for this nonsense, even though he was only in his fifties. The ache in his chest was worrisome.
“Thank you,” he said to the nearest knight, Sir William. “Get some food before coming back. I need to speak privately with Lord Gilbert.”
“Aye, my lord,” said Sir William and promptly obeyed.
Once the tent was clear except for the two of them, Gilbert gave him a studying look. “Have you lost your nerve, my lord?”
“I brought the child, didn’t I?”
“What if the mother starts wailing from the battlements? I wouldn’t put it past Barton to arrange for something like that.”
Gervase snorted. “I suppose he might. The blackguard.”
“He’s cunning. And he’s testing you. They’re all testing you.”
Gervase looked away, feeling his courage wilt. How could he do this thing? A child should not be held accountable for the sins of his father. And yet the bonds of family were the strongest inducement at his disposal. Money could be replaced. Lands could be conquered. But a son . . . a son couldn’t be raised from the dead. Only in the fables of the Fountain did things like that ever happen.
The pallet and blankets had been laid out, and Gervase was weary enough he thought he might actually fall asleep after not sleeping the night before. This game of warfare vexed him.
“Tell me now, my lord. Are you going to go through with it?”
“I will, I swear on the Lady.” He turned and faced Gilbert. “On the morrow, if Barton doesn’t open the gate and surrender the castle, I’ll hang his son and then send the body back to the mother by trebuchet.” He clenched his hands into fists. “Tell him what I said, Gilbert. Tell him he dare not test my patience any further.”
Gilbert nodded coolly. “I will.”
Before the candle burned halfway out, before the pit-roasted capon on his plate was consumed, before Gervase could even finish his first cup of wine, the reply came back.
Barton would not yield the castle.
And so Gervase could not sleep that night either. With a cloak shrouding his body, the King of Ceredigion walked through the camp, trailed at a distance by his most trusted knights. Soldiers watched the wooden pickets in case Barton tried a night attack. Gervase hoped that he would. Such an action would bring the fight where it belonged: between him and Lord Barton. But after hours and hours of waiting, the sun began to stir behind the clouds, and the end of night approached. Gervase hadn’t even attempted to sleep, and his eyes felt chalky with grit and irritated from the campfire smoke.
Men roused from slumber, the camp beginning to churn with life. Fresh logs were tossed onto fires, and men rubbed their hands over the leaping flames. Gervase found himself staring at the tent where his hostage still slept, but as the shadows were driven away by the sun, his gaze shifted to the gallows, fashioned from one of the trebuchets. A rope hung from it with a noose at the end. A barrel to stand on was positioned beneath it on the turf, both wet with morning dew.