They’d sent the captain ahead with riders, but he had not yet returned with news from their allies to the north. Both Sir James and Benedict were supposed to be moving down from that direction. Nor had they heard from the Black Prince, who was attacking down near Southport. It made no sense to keep going east, which was where they suspected the Elder King’s forces to be.
A horsefly came and landed on the unarmored neck of Ransom’s steed, and he waved it away. They all wore their full armor, which added to their discomfort.
“Do you want to send out another rider?” Ransom asked him.
Shouts rose up from behind them, and both men twisted around in their saddles. Knights were pulling off the road to allow a rider from the west to come through, with people shouting “Make way! Make way!”
A tingle of concern went down Ransom’s spine. Why was the rider coming from the west? He turned his horse around, and so did the Younger King, whose face became grave with concern. The rider bypassed the others, and they recognized him as Sir Tibult, one of the princess’s knights.
He was dripping with sweat when he arrived, his armor bearing the sigil of the fleur-de-lis. Ransom stared, knowing he was from the princess’s guard, who were with her and the supply horses and the rearguard of the army. She’d ridden in the back because it had been deemed safer, but this man’s presence suggested otherwise.
“My lord!” he said, half choking. His eyes were wide with shock.
“What is it, man?” Devon asked, his voice throbbing with agitation. “Why aren’t you with Noemie?”
“I b-barely escaped,” sputtered the knight.
“Escaped what?” asked Devon in confusion, eyes widening. “You should have stayed with her, man!”
“It was too late! She’s been captured.” He spoke in Occitanian, his breath coming in quick gasps. “They almost caught me. I had to kill two knights to make it out. They shot arrows at my back, tried to kill me and my horse!”
“Who? Who did this?”
“The king’s army. Your father! He’s coming from behind us!”
At that precise moment, the Younger King’s horse began to drop clods of manure onto the road. The smell of sickening fumes wafted from the heap.
Devon looked stunned, as if someone had struck his skull with a mace.
“Behind us?” he asked.
They’d been expecting to face him in front, joined by the forces from the north and south. They were their most vulnerable at that moment, with just the knights Devon had brought with them. The Elder King must have known as much and hung back rather than pressing forward. He must have discovered the betrayal went beyond Devon.
Ransom looked at Sir Robert Tregoss, who mouthed a word of dread, having gone pale.
“The princess was taken, along with all of the hostages from Arlect, who have now been freed. The king knows the size of our force. They’re riding hard behind me! We must go at once!”
Devon looked at Ransom, eyes bulging with panic. “Which way do we ride? North or south?”
“We should ride south, of course!” said the Occitanian knight. “Prince Estian’s army is that way. He will help free his sister.”
Devon scowled. “She’s my wife,” he snapped. He swore beneath his breath, then turned back to the sign of the crossroads. Three roads. Three choices.
“Ransom, which way?” Devon shouted in agitation.
Lord Kinghorn’s words came back to his mind. He felt the panic of the situation, the overwhelming urge to start galloping away, any direction but west, but he tried to calm his thoughts. If he had to choose between Estian and Benedict, he’d choose the latter. His instincts told him that even if the Black Prince helped them win, it would be a win for Occitania, not for the Younger King.
“North. Let’s find your brother.”
“Prince Estian’s army is bigger!” complained the other knight.
“But it will scatter to the winds if things go poorly,” Devon said, nodding in agreement with Ransom. Looks of terror were showing up on faces. Word of their predicament was spreading quickly.
“Let’s ride, my lord,” Ransom said, turning his horse around.
“We cannot leave my lady behind!” said Tibult in despair.
“You already did!” growled Devon.
They followed the marker to Blackpool, going north at a hard pace. Ransom led the way, and the road shook with the thunder of the hooves of their army. Five hundred men. It was not enough to face a king’s army. Not by any means.