Now that things went astray it was Tristen’s advice that guided him, and it was huntsman’s economy he meant to practice: that was how he explained it to lords who had never ridden Ivanim fashion to war. Maudyn was dismayed to hear he meant to abandon the careful fortifications he had made, and worse, to make every individual man responsible for his own food and warmth hereafter. All day long the line of carts on a narrow, perilously forested road had kept Ryssand at his tail, for Ryssand had not been able to maneuver past.
Ryssand had surely taken the point, for Ryssand had not sent so much as a messenger forward to hack his way through the brush and seek converse with his king. The carts having gotten onto the bridge ahead of Ryssand’s forces, and the army having moved past Lord Maudyn’s camp without stopping, and some of those carts having maneuvered into the road, why, there they were, all day long, moving through wooded land well suited for scattered ambush by archers, but utterly safe from large movements of cavalry such as Tasmôrden commanded. If an army of fools was bound to quarrel in enemy territory, it was an area as forgiving of folly as he could hope for… for this one day.
After this, dissent became deadly, but he did not count on Ryssand to care overmuch. He did hope to make as much of a fool of Ryssand as he could manage, and be sure the others that might follow his leadership at least knew how recklessly Ryssand conducted himself.
Now the last contingents arrived: now Ryssand came, with, indeed, Murandys and Nelefreissan. So the banners declared, as contingent marched in from the wood-girt, well-manured road.
It was the first look he had had at Ryssand’s forces, and to his mild surprise, indeed, they all came with more than their household guards: they brought all the peasant muster he had once asked for and which he had now as lief not have trammeling up his battle plan… and with those men, they could not keep up with the cavalry as he meant to press them.
Nor could the Ryssandish peasantry avoid heavy losses in what he was sure their lord meant to do, a certainty that drove all vestige of humor from the situation. There were dead men, very likely not even in Ryssand’s concern. There were men about to make their wives widows and their children orphans and their farms a fallow waste.
Damn, he said to himself, seeing the trap of his own making. Here were men that should have been left in camp: here were men who should not have advanced farther than Maudyn’s first camp, and who certainly should not march from this one. Here were the innocent, no matter that they were Ryssand’s. It was Ryssand and Ryssand’s house guard on whom he looked blackly, and beyond them, indeed, Ryssand’s own baggage train would come hindmost of alclass="underline" clearly, once it had become a race for the bridge, the traditional force Ryssand commanded had not a chance of crossing in time, not without deserting his infantry.
So Cefwyn stood with arms folded and his guard around him, under the red-and-gold Dragon Banner of the Marhanen. Lord Mau-dyn, too, came from the edge of his notice and joined him, leaving his sons to deal with the camp-making. He was touched by that sensible loyalty, not disappointed in Maudyn’s common sense to see a situation and act, no matter how strange his king’s orders throughout the day.
But, gods, he missed Idrys in what would ensue in the next few moments. He wished Idrys could have the satisfaction, for one thing, and missed that wry, acerbic, and critical counsel that reasonable men learned to respect.
Idrys was not here to impose his chilling presence, and so he met these would-be traitors not with his accustomed smile but with Idrys’ own black stare.
“Late!” he said, before Ryssand could get a single, carping word out of his mouth. “Late, and out of the order of the camp!”
“Surely Your Majesty knew we would not fail your orders,” Ryssand countered.
“Did I? Am I a wizard? I think not!” Cefwyn spared a glance at Prichwarrin and the lord of Nelefreissan, and settled a second, baleful stare on Ryssand. “On the other hand, wizards advise Tasmôrden!
Does Cuthan, perchance, give you their advice? Have you brought him? We can begin our war with a hanging. That for a start!”
“Your Majesty.” Murandys’ dismay at this wide-ranging attack was no pretense, Cefwyn was sure: Prichwarrin was too cautious a man and Ryssand too grossly affronted to say what he would wish to say. It was too early for them to launch a rebellion; it was possible that Prichwarrin himself was ignorant of what Ryssand planned and Ryssand might not want him to know it. And by the gods he was of no disposition to smooth rebels’ feathers.
“Have you brought him?” he repeated his question regarding Cuthan, and used his grandfather’s temper, nothing held back. “Parsynan, perhaps, the hero of Amefel. Do I see him in your train?”
“No, Your Majesty,” Ryssand said in cold formality.
“A pity,” he said with sudden and equal coldness. “Set your tents in what space you can find tonight. I trust after this debacle there’ll be no tardiness on the field.”
That, imprudently, perhaps, he sent straight to the heart of Ryssand’s intentions, but Ryssand never blanched.
“No, Your Majesty.”
On that, Cefwyn began to turn away, allowing them time to show their real expressions, and suddenly spun about and measured one after the other sour face with a long stare, ending with Ryssand, at whom he gazed a long, long moment.
Then he said in unfeigned disgust: “I need you. Have I your observance of your oaths?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Ryssand said for all the others, with never a blink or a glance down in shame, but Ryssand’s eyes burned.
“Heavy horse to the center,” he said. “Your infantry to guard the camp.”
“Your Majesty,—”
“To guard the camp, I say! And your horse to the center! I’ve a notion where I’ll meet that blackguard, if I can rely on my maps… if you have better, provide them.”
“I’ve received no such information, Your Majesty. Nor have any of us, save from Cuthan, of course, in whom Your Majesty has no confidence.”
Damn you, he very nearly said. The effrontery was at the surface now, the other barons standing well behind, obscure in the twilight, perhaps asking themselves how far indeed Ryssand was prepared to go. Corswyndam’s temper had almost leapt into flame. It smoldered, it very clearly smoldered. So did his.