“You ring me ‘round with traditions and petty laws, all to force me to your will. Am I your king or am I not?” Regal demanded bluntly.
“You are not our king.” Brawndy pointed it out quietly but firmly. “You are our king-in-waiting. And likely to continue waiting until these charges and this issue is resolved.”
The blackness of Regal’s glare plainly showed how little this was to his liking. “Very well,” he said flatly, all too quickly. “I suppose I must submit to this … bargaining. Remember that you have decreed it must be this way, not I.” He turned and looked at me. I knew then that he would not keep his word; I knew I would die in this cell. That sick and sudden knowledge of my own death blackened the edges of my vision, set me swaying on my feet. I felt I had taken two steps back from life. A coldness crept up inside me.
“Then we are agreed,” Brawndy said smoothly. He turned his eyes back to me, and frowned. Something of what I was feeling must have showed on my face, for he asked quickly, “FitzChivalry. Are you fairly treated here? Do they feed you?” As he asked this he unfastened the brooch at his shoulder. His cloak was much worn, but of wool, and when he threw it to me, the weight of it knocked me back against the wall.
I clutched the cloak, warm still with his body heat, gratefully. “Water. Bread,” I said briefly. I looked down at the heavy wool garment. “Thank you,” I said more quietly.
“It’s better than many have!” Regal retorted angrily. “Times are hard,” he added lamely. As if those he spoke to did not know that better than he did.