Ransom felt tears prick his own eyes. He clapped Dearley on the back, unable to speak for the moment. When he did find his voice again, it was thick with emotion. “Thank you. You helped get me out of there alive. That means something to me as well.”
Dearley flushed with pride. “Well, I wasn’t totally useless. After what you did, I drew my sword. Someone kept striking at you from behind while you were fighting the Black Prince’s knights. I . . . I killed him. And then the one who attacked you with a poleaxe.”
“Did you now?” Ransom said, pleased.
Dearley nodded vigorously. “After what you did to protect me . . . I could do no less.”
They both heard the sound of steps coming toward the tent. Dearley rose, and Ransom heard his stomach growl again. The tent opened, and a stranger carrying a leather bag entered. Lord Bryon came in behind him.
“I brought the barber . . .” Lord Bryon said, then fell silent. The barber saw Ransom sitting up on the cot, and his brows knitted in confusion.
“I thought he was mortally wounded?”
Lord Bryon studied Ransom for a moment, and a small smile came on his face. “No, that was someone else, and he died already. This is Sir Ransom, a member of the king’s council. Just have a quick look at him before he reports to the king.”
The barber frowned in confusion, but he came forward and examined Ransom’s wounds. He prodded his chest with a forefinger and then examined his neck. “He’s about as hale as you’d expect,” he said with a shrug before standing again. “I’m sorry the other man died. I came as fast as I could.”
“Thank you,” Lord Bryon said, reaching into his coin purse and handing some livres to the man. “You’ll earn more by tending to the wounded.”
“Of course! That’s why I came.”
The barber left, and Ransom slowly stood. He felt a certain emptiness inside—one that came from his depleted stores of magic—but his body was growing stronger by the moment.
Lord Bryon looked at him, that secret smile growing. “Can you come to the king’s tent?”
“I think so,” Ransom said, flexing his arm muscles, feeling the health in them.
“A new tunic, perhaps?” Lord Kinghorn said. “Everyone in the camp thinks you won’t survive the night. Many saw your condition when Sir Dearley brought you here.” His smile broadened. “I never thought I’d live to see the day. Well . . . this makes our victory more noteworthy. The legends say King Andrew had a knight that no one could defeat. It would seem your pilgrimage to the oasis has served you well.” He nodded encouragingly. “I’d enjoy discussing it with you someday. Come when you’re ready. There’s much to share.”
“I’ll be there shortly, my lord,” Ransom said.
“I know you will be,” Lord Bryon said, and from the way he said it, Ransom knew he’d finally won the man’s respect. He watched as his kinsman left the tent, and then he turned to Dearley, who had been a silent witness to their exchange.
“I’ll fetch you some food,” Dearley promised, and he left the tent as well.
Ransom stood there in the midday heat. He saw his sword leaning against the armor stand and walked over to it. He gripped it in his hand and felt strength radiate through his arm. Overcome with wonder, he lifted it and slid it into the scabbard.
As the blade screeched against the material of the scabbard, he heard the Fountain’s voice whisper to him again.
The scion of King Andrew will be reborn through an heir of the Argentines. They will try to kill the heir. You are all that stands in the way.
Jon-Landon came to see his mother again. But this time I knew for certain I was the one he wanted to see. He had a fevered quality to his eyes, like a dog following a cook with a juicy bone. Jon-Landon wants power. He wants it at all costs. His hope of becoming his father’s heir has, it seems, been dashed, but the duchy of Glosstyr is still a crown title to be given away. Jon-Landon wants it. But I don’t want him. Oh how it galls him that his father cannot order me to accept him. Well, he has tried to do just that, but I have a voice and I have a will and I will not be bound to such a tick-bitten dog. Jon-Landon wants to threaten me. I can see it in his eyes, yet he’s not that foolish.
The only news he had of the battle was that the Elder King had been pressing the flesh of Estian, jabbing a bruise that was already painful. Both sides lost a lot of good men. Still no word about or from Ransom. So I don’t know whether I should weep for joy, relief, or misery.
—Claire de Murrow, Queen in Her Own Right
(from forsaken Legault)
CHAPTER SEVEN
Temptation
With some food in his belly and a fresh tunic, Ransom walked to the king’s tent, only to find that he had already gone south with Benedict. Ransom fetched Dappled and rode hard after them. Peasants were gathering the remains of the dead, and the cheery banter of the folk contrasted strangely with the solemnity of the moment.
Ransom knew the road, for he had ridden it before. It led to Pree. He passed soldiers marching with spears and halberds, heading to catch up with their king before dark. The faces he saw were grim and determined. There was no fear in their eyes, only a strong drive for vengeance. The king’s rhetoric before the battle had worked well—the hackles of Ceredigion had been raised. A mood to conquer pervaded the air. He passed the front ranks and rode ahead alone, wondering how far the king had ridden.
His answer came as some knights barred the road ahead. He sensed them before he saw them in the shadows, and he reined in, hand going to his sword.
“Who are you?” one of them asked.
The king’s voice erupted from the shadows clinging beneath some yew trees. “It’s Sir Ransom, you dolt. Let him through.”
The knights parted, and Ransom passed between them, earning nods from both men. Their armor was battered and blood-spattered. Both had seen hard fighting that day.
The king was in his full armor as well, a chain hood on his head with the hollow crown resting atop it. Benedict rode next to his father on one side and Lord Kinghorn on the other. A few other knights lingered in the shadows. Ransom sensed them all, and now that he was back in the presence of the king, of the man to whom he’d sworn an oath, he felt the trickle of energy flowing back into him.
“Look at you,” said the king. “All that fuss and nonsense over a few scrapes. They almost had me believing you were ready for a boat and a trip down the falls to greet the Deep Fathoms.”
“I feel much better,” Ransom said, trying not to smile.
Benedict eyed Ransom with a look teetering between jealousy and awe.
“Indeed you should,” the king said. “We defeated Estian’s army, but he wriggled out of the net like a slippery fish. Now he’s nearly back in Pree.”
“Where are Duke Ashel and Duke Rainor?” Ransom asked, noticing that neither of them were present.
“I sent Ashel westward with his army. No one is opposing us. He’s to wait at the border of Bayree for orders. And Rainor took a nasty blow during the fighting. He’s in his tent back at the camp. But we have all the leaders we need right now.” He glanced at his son and gave him a proud smile.
Benedict nodded solemnly.