He found himself looking over at the young King at his side. The boy's mood – usually sombre, from what Blackthorn had come to expect for him – had been strangely jovial. Or perhaps jovial went too far. At the very least, he did not seem altogether upset by the pressure put on them. Nor even blackened by the betrayal.
King Patrick looked down carefully on the Emerson Capital with the sort of lazy eyes that a farmer might evaluate his sheep with.
"You have an idea?" General Blackthorn asked, wondering behind the reason for the boy's self assuredness.
"Not one," Oliver said back quickly.
Blackthorn tutted in his irritation. Hard to get a grasp on, the boy was. He understood him better than he had two days ago, but not enough to forgive his every whim. Certainly not enough to tell what he was actually thinking.
"I supposed we might fell a tree, run it down on our wagons. Form ourselves a battering ram," General Blackthorn said.
