It didn’t take long for the protector of Belgrade to come looking for them. They were not exactly subtle when they entered the city, and the guards would have surely spoken about a company of heavily armed knights to their lord.

  But when they summoned him, they always seemed to choose the same moment just as he was chewing the first bite of breakfast, or sipping something warm, or trying to convince himself that the day might be quiet for once. This time was no different. A servant of the white fortress approached their table, clearing his throat before speaking. Clearly intimidated by the glare of ten well-built, well-armed knights who were just enjoying their breakfast before he had come barging in. Whatever courage he had, he left it on the door.

  “Greetings, noble sir,” the man said, bowing with practiced stiffness. “My lord Frankopan Talovac, in charge of Nándorfehérvár, the Ban of Ma?va, inquires of your presence.”

  Remy disliked titles when spoken like that, stacked one atop another until the meaning felt more ceremonial than functional. Still, a summons was a summons, and appearances mattered here more than comfort. Sir Gaston and Sir Aldred exchanged a brief look, one that said they had expected this sooner or later. Jehan had already put her cup down, wiping her fingers clean before rising.

  They then rode through the lower streets toward the fortress, horses moving at a measured pace. Fully armed, they drew the attention of every guard along the path. Belgrade’s white walls gleamed in the early light, and the defenders watched the approaching horses with hands hovering close to spearshafts. They were not hostile, only alert. Frontier men lived in a constant state of readiness, and armored riders looked as reassuring as a storm cloud.

  The fortress swallowed them in stone and shadow. Once inside the courtyard, a knight stepped forward and motioned politely toward their weapons.

  “Your arms, if you please,” he said.

  Remy did not answer immediately. Instead he dismounted, loosened his blue cloak, and unbuckled the strap across his chest. Then he spoke.

  “No,” he said. “My squire will watch over them.”

  He handed each piece to Jehan, his sword first, then the knives concealed beneath his blue cloak, then the crossbow, then the handgonne fastened at his back. The knight watched with steadily widening eyes, counting silently. Remy did not hurry. Let them see. Let them wonder why one man needed so much steel.

  Sir Gaston, less dramatic, simply drew his sword and passed it to Sir Aldred, who remained behind with the horses. The Ban of Ma?va clearly did not expect half the party to be left standing guard outside, but they did not comment when the knights resumed their pace.

  As they walked deeper into the fortress, Sir Gaston said quietly, “I heard that after the death of Serbian Despot Stefan Lazarevi? in 1427, Belgrade returned to direct Hungarian royal control. Administratively, the city falls under the Banate of Ma?va, and the Ban serves as military governor. This position gives him command over the most important frontier fortress on the Danube.”

  Remy listened, but said nothing. Gaston enjoyed citing information. And Remy preferred knowing what to do with them.

  The servant led them into a narrow hall warmed by a brazier, then into a chamber lined with maps, scrolls, and the kind of clutter men collected when they lived under pressure. A tall, sharp-faced man stood behind a heavy table. His gaze rested first on Sir Gaston, then slid to Remy, lingering on their armor.

  “Do you always come fully armed?” the Ban asked in a tongue they understood.

  Sir Gaston allowed silence to answer for him. Remy stepped forward.

  “We do.”

  The Ban’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You speak our tongue?”

  “I speak a lot of tongue, Sir.”

  It always surprised Remy how people changed when they heard him speak their language correctly. Shoulders loosened, suspicion thinned, and faces softened, as though every fear they held could be quieted by hearing the same language.

  The Ban exhaled, not quite a sigh, but close. “Pardon me, then, for the urgency. As the Ban of Ma?va, charged by King Sigismund to safeguard this white fortress, the sight of ten armed knights in heavy armor raises questions. I was told by my people that you are heading toward Byzantium.”

  Remy lifted his hand, slowly, deliberately, and took out the letter from Archbishop Pálóczi Gy?rgy. The Ban received it with both hands, scanning the contents with focus clearly sharpened by years of command. When he finished, he set the letter on the table and nodded.

  “It is rare for Archbishop Pálóczi Gy?rg to extend accommodation to foreign knights,” the Ban said.

  “Are you familiar with him?” Remy asked.

  “I am not,” the Ban admitted. “But the Archbishop speaks close to King Sigismund’s ear. His guarantee is enough for me. You will forgive my suspicions. The Ottomans press the King’s borders. I must know who passes through my fortress. Everyone.”

  Remy accepted the explanation with a simple nod. Suspicion was the lifeblood of frontier men. If he could not do this, then he does not deserve to take charge of this city.

  The Ban called to his servant in Serbian, ordering hospitality. Then he motioned for them to follow him into a hall across from the chamber. The place was drafty but spacious, lined with carved beams and a long table set for guests. Servants hurried in with bread, cheese, smoked fish, and small cups of rakija that smelled like it could peel paint off a wall.

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  “Please,” the Ban said, gesturing for them to sit. “I have interrupted your meal. And good men must eat.”

  Remy did not sit. He waited for Sir Gaston to his place first, then finally lowered himself onto the bench. He watched the servants bring more trays, watched the Ban’s practiced hospitality unfold, and wondered whether the man was genuinely courteous or simply careful.

  The Ban sat across from them, hands steepled. “It is unusual to see a company such as yours without banner or lord.”

  Sir Gaston spoke this time. “We are bound for Jerusalem. We are following His charge, our lord and savior, Jesus Christ.”

  The Ban studied their faces, slowing his next breath as though weighing truth against suspicion. “You travel armed as soldiers heading to war, yet speak as pilgrims.”

  Remy said, “Both things can be true.”

  “Perhaps,” the Ban murmured. “But men with armor such as yours do not pass unnoticed in these lands.”

  A servant poured more rakija. Remy ignored his cup until the Ban lifted his own in a gesture that demanded politeness. He swallowed a mouthful. The liquid hit his chest like a hammer, but he managed not to cough.

  Sir Gaston drank his more smoothly.

  The Ban leaned back. “Forgive me if I pry. But a journey to the holy city is dangerous. And costly. Yet the Archbishop recommends you with unusual urgency.”

  “He knows who we are,” Sir Gaston replied.

  “And who is that?” the Ban asked.

  Remy answered without hesitation. “Travelers. Very capable ones.”

  For a moment, the Ban smiled, thin, controlled, not quite amused. “If all travelers carried as many weapons as you, the Ottomans would flee the frontier.”

  Remy offered no comment. Jokes were wasted on him unless they served a purpose.

  After a few more exchanges, the Ban pushed aside his cup and rested his arm on the table. “I must ask something plainly,” he said. “Are you here to recruit men? Or to assess my walls? My garrison? My readiness?” His tone was calm, but sharpened by something beneath, concern, or fear, or perhaps simply exhaustion.

  “Neither,” Remy said. “We are simply travelers.”

  “Good,” the Ban replied. “Because spies are hung from those walls.” He gestured toward the window slit, where a narrow view of the fortress exterior could be seen. The cliff beyond fell sharply toward the Sava. A drop that could break bone and dignity alike.

  Sir Gaston did not flinch. Remy only blinked, unimpressed. As if he could easily bend and break the Ban with his bare hands. And not even the knights in this fortress could stop him if he wished to do so.

  The Ban noticed.

  “You are not easily unsettled,” the Ban observed.

  “I am not easily anything. We are but Pilgrims, but we can be warriors if you wish us to be one.”

  The Ban laughed once, more out of surprise than humor. “Then forgive my suspicions. You understand my position. This fortress has been contested too many times to welcome strangers without question.”

  He stood, prompting them to rise as well. “Walk with me. There is something you should see.”

  They followed him through a side passage and out onto a high rampart walkway. The wind hit them hard, carrying the cold tang of river water and distant smoke. From here, the entire confluence stretched below, the Danube’s pale sweep merging with the darker Sava. Boats drifted like scattered leaves.

  “The Ottomans want this place,” the Ban said, laying a hand on the stone wall. “They have wanted it for years. If Belgrade falls, the road to Buda opens. The heart of the kingdom becomes reachable. Every man here knows it.”

  Remy listened in silence. He understood. Frontier fortresses were always held by men who balanced hope and dread with equal measure.

  The Ban continued, “We hold for now. But not because our walls are strong. We hold because our people know what happens if we fail.”

  His words were steady. His gaze was not.

  Remy saw it, the edge of fatigue in the man’s eyes. The way he carried the weight of command like a man who had been doing it too long without enough sleep.

  The Ban turned toward them. “Your presence, armed as you are, stirred fear among the garrison. But now that I know your purpose, I will inform them you are pilgrims under the Archbishop and the Pope in Rome’s protection.”

  “We cause trouble wherever we go,” Remy said. “May He protect this place, and may your walls firm for the years to come, Lord lord Frankopan Talovac. You will need it when the Crescent comes knocking at your doorsteps. They will come.”

  The Ban, instead of taking offense, laughed again, this time genuine. “Indeed they will. And may the Lord protect us all from their ambitions.”

  “I am glad that you understand us,” Remy said.

  The intentions of the Ban was clear. But Remy wasn’t going to be intimidated, nor coaxed into doing service for Lords they do not serve. There was one King that Remy would serve, and he rules the Kingdom that was in Heaven

  They walked back toward the hall. Servants were setting down more food, preparing for a longer meeting, but the Ban waved it off.

  “You have your preparations for your journey. I will not detain you here longer.” He stepped closer to Remy. “But one thing before you leave.”

  Remy waited.

  “If you return by this road, come to me. I would hear what you find beyond these borders. Would it be acceptable, Sir Lucien Valois”

  Remy nodded once. “If we ever return, I will.”

  “Then go with my blessing, Sir Valois,” the Ban said. “And may God keep you until you reach the holy city and find whatever it is that you had hoped to find.”

  They left the hall and descended to the courtyard, where Sir Aldred stood patiently with the horses and Jehan guarded the pile of Remy’s weapons.

  Remy took back each piece in silence, fastening straps, checking buckles, feeling the familiar weight settle across his body. He mounted his horse last.

  As they rode away from the fortress gates, Sir Gaston said quietly, “He likes you.”

  “Really,” Remy answered. “I think he tolerates me.”

  Gaston glanced at him. “That is more than most.”

  Remy said nothing. The wind carried the chill of rivers and old stone, and the white fortress of Belgrade receded behind them as the day stretched toward whatever waited next.