The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(20)
One of the advance scouts came riding back around the bend, his face flushed. He reined in hard in front of Owen. “My lord, Marshal Roux is ahead with twenty riders.”
He was waiting for us, Owen realized again, frowning at the thought. He knew we were coming. He wasn’t surprised, but it was another sign that Roux was not an enemy he wished to make.
“How are they armed?”
“Like knights,” the soldier said. “More polished than we are.”
“Thank you,” Owen said. He knew the confrontation was inevitable. Best to get it over with quickly. They rode ahead and found the marshal’s knights blocking the road. Their tabards were clean and tidy, the white field with the black raven sigil on it. They held lances with banners as well, each knight armed for battle.
Owen grit his teeth as he approached, slowing the horse to a trot. He glanced at the woods on each side of Lord Roux, hoping to discern movement. There were only more ravens. A whole unkindness of them. He smirked at the thought. Evie had once told him about the various names used to describe groupings of birds. It had taken her nearly an hour to recite them all.
“My lord Kiskaddon, I’m surprised to see you,” Marshal Roux said. As always, he looked wary, proud, and suspicious.
“Are you truly?” Owen answered with a snort of disbelief. “It seems to me as if you were expecting us.”
“Word does travel quickly here.”
“I imagine it does,” Owen countered. He tugged on the reins, stopping his horse in front of Roux’s.
“Why have you come?” Marshal Roux demanded. “We received no message from you. Nothing to state your business.”
“I come with a message from my king,” Owen said evenly. “And I am to deliver it to the duchess in person. Be so kind as to escort us there. As you can see,” he added, gesturing to his unkempt soldiers, “we’re simple soldiers on a mission for our king. There was no time for preamble.”
The lord marshal’s eyes narrowed. He seemed to be sizing Owen up, trying to discern the true reason for his visit.
“This is highly suspicious,” Roux said.
“I can imagine why it would be seen that way,” Owen replied. “We are allies, are we not? Is it not proper for us to discuss matters without a formal invitation?”
“You brought soldiers with you,” Roux pointed out.
“As did you. Why should that concern either of us?”
“And who is she?” Roux asked, looking guardedly at Etayne, his eyes full of distrust.
Owen hesitated before responding. Then he chuckled. “You don’t think I would have come this far out of Ceredigion without suitable protection, do you, Lord Marshal? Do you intend to talk until sunset? It is still a fair journey to the city, is it not?”
Lord Roux frowned at the comment, at Owen’s evasiveness and insinuation—all of which were deliberate. Owen would not give away the purpose of his visit until they were in front of the duchess. This put Roux at a disadvantage.
“Of course you are welcome,” Lord Roux said flatly, with no hint of the sentiment. “The duchess herself ordered me to bring you to her as her guests and allies. She is anxious to meet you, Lord Kiskaddon. Come with me.”
He turned his horse with a sharp tug on the reins, and the pennant bearers hoisted their javelins and rode in organized columns.
The capital of Brythonica was built into a cove off the coast and had expansive quays and docks and ships bearing many flags, especially that of Genevar. The cove was crested by hills on which sat an array of villas and gardened manors. The royal castle was built on a rocky crag at the head of the bay, and the road leading to it was so steep that switchbacks had been dug out of it, making it possible to ascend but incredibly difficult to assault. It was obvious the location of Ploemeur had been chosen carefully, for it was the most defensible structure Owen had seen in Brythonica. It reminded him of Kingfountain palace, only much smaller and more difficult to reach.
Riding up the switchbacks was an arduous affair, and the air soon filled with chalk-white dust from the constant tramp of the horses. As they ascended the rocky hill, Owen could see the beautiful estates stretched out below them, and the fading sunlight and shadows filling the bay lent a purple cast to the stones of the hill.
When they finally reached the castle, Owen was exhausted from the ride and growing concerned that he had blundered into a trap. As he gazed at the structure, he tried to examine it critically, wondering how an invading army could besiege such a place. Even with all of Severn’s sizable resources, it would be no easy feat. The castle could be held for a very long time with minimal guardians. The duchess could defend from the heights while Chatriyon’s army, once the Occitanian king learned about the siege, could ravage the countryside and attack at their rear. It was beginning to look like a foolish venture.
The duchess had well-dressed grooms waiting to take their horses and offer refreshment to the men.
Lord Roux dismounted and immediately made his way over to Owen, tugging off his gloves and stuffing them into his belt. “Your men need time to wash and dress. I would advise a breakfast meeting with the duchess. The view of the bay is exquisite in the morning, and I’m certain—”
“The news I bring is urgent, my lord,” Owen interrupted, clapping his dusty gloves together and letting a cloud plume before him. “It cannot wait.”