Ransom looked at him with trepidation. “Who?”
“Who else?” said Lord Kinghorn with a steely gaze. “King Lewis has always considered these lands to be his.”
“Westmarch?”
“Aye, and more. Brythonica, the Vexin. There is a history of invasions between our realms that goes back to the age of the Wizrs, I should think. Long has Lewis coveted the hollow crown, as did his father and his father before him. During the civil war, Lewis offered Devon Argentine money and troops to fuel the conflict. I think he hoped both sides would cripple each other enough that he could swoop in and win. But his machinations worked against him, and now King Devon’s too powerful for Lewis to attack directly, lest he risk losing more land. And so he continues to push at him in subtle ways, funding this person and that, inciting trouble where he can. Our king is tired of constantly defending his territory. He intends to bring the fight to Lewis himself.”
“How will he do that?”
“By showing King Lewis that he is not to be trifled with.” Another bout of coughing seized him, stalling the conversation. After it calmed again, he continued. “King Devon is returning here, to his ancestral duchy. And he’s bringing his army with him to support his interests here and make a statement to Lewis’s nobles. He’s decided to crown his son, Devon the Younger, as King of Ceredigion. But not the boy’s queen. Noemie will be crowned later.”
Ransom’s eyes widened. “She’s the Black Prince’s sister.”
Lord Kinghorn nodded. “Yes. But we still have a queen. Queen Emiloh.”
Ransom winced. “The Occitanians will take it as an affront, my lord.”
“The king does it deliberately. It’s his way of telling Lewis that he knows he’s interfering in our affairs. It’s an open provocation, a challenge. Lewis believes that he will win Ceredigion through marriage alliances. Princes Devon and Bennett both have marriage alliances. Goff’s is Brythonican, which again strengthens our position. The king’s youngest son will be given to Glosstyr’s daughter, the heiress of Legault.”
The words punched Ransom in the chest. He blinked, felt his throat struggle to swallow.
Lord Kinghorn noticed. “What’s wrong?”
“N-nothing, my lord,” Ransom said, trying to find his breath, “but the boy can be no more than twelve.”
“He won’t always be so young,” said Lord Kinghorn with a wry smile. “A promise is all that is needed to position for power. The Duke of North Cumbria has been trying to arrange a match between Lady Claire and his son, but that would give North Cumbria too much power.”
Ransom felt sick inside. Still, he knew better than to say anything about his feelings for Lady Claire, especially when it was Devon’s wife who’d funded his release. He tried to compose his face, but he feared his emotions were clear for Lord Kinghorn to see. The man was studying him closely.
“You are to report to the queen at Kingfountain,” Lord Kinghorn said. “You may stop by the Heath and see your kin. In fact, I ask that you do so since you ignored my advice last time, and you will invite your brother and the rest of your family to court to attend the coronation. All of this will happen before winter.” He gave Ransom a wolflike smile. “So that King Lewis and the Black Prince may spend the winter pondering and worrying about what they might expect come spring.”
It was a threat of war.
“Before I go, my lord, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course you may. Go on.”
“You are the most well-read man I know.” Ransom swallowed. “While I was a hostage to DeVaux, he claimed that I was Fountain-blessed.”
“He did. It is what made the cost of the ransom so high.”
“My lord . . . am I?”
Lord Kinghorn gave him a serious look. “I don’t know, Marshall. Whether it was a ploy DeVaux used to extort more livres from the queen, I couldn’t say. When her knights from Auxaunce arrived on the scene, she feared all of you had been slain. But there were farmers who’d watched the battle from a distance. Men who knew DeVaux and feared him. They spoke of two knights who stood back-to-back, protecting the road and preventing DeVaux’s men from going after the queen. One of those knights was struck down and killed. Sir William Chappell. I knew him.” His voice trailed off, his gaze intense. “The other was struck down from behind, his leg pierced through with a lance. He was carried off. That was you.” He rubbed his palms together. “I don’t know anyone who could have survived what you did. They say it is very difficult to kill someone who is Fountain-blessed.”