“I’m surprised to see you still on your feet,” said Estian with a calm smile. He cocked his head slightly. “When we last met, you had a piece of wood stuck in you.”
“I suppose I did,” Ransom said.
Estian snorted. “I tried to kill you, but I couldn’t. Just like I couldn’t defeat you in the tournament circuit. That’s why Devon sent you to face me. He thought it would intimidate me.” He smiled as if at a private joke. “I’ve requested aid from the southern dukes. They’ll be here shortly, so I don’t fear a siege. I also have mercenaries coming from Genevar. It won’t take them long to arrive by ship. So. I will ask the question I’ve long wished to ask.”
Ransom looked at him with curiosity.
“Name your price, Sir Ransom.”
“The king wishes—”
Estian held up his hand, his eyes flashing with anger. “No. I don’t care what he wants. I care about what you want. And I think I know it, so I will make the first offer. You want Lady Claire de Murrow. Ransom, I can get her for you. You won’t have Glosstyr, but you could be ruling Legault alongside her.”
With those words came a throb of temptation. Estian was good. He knew from Noemie, undoubtedly, where Ransom’s heart was bound.
“Oh?” Ransom asked curiously. “Your reach extends all the way to the tower in Kingfountain?”
“You think I make an empty boast?” Estian said, his eyes flashing. “I could have Lady Claire here in Pree tonight. I know you are Fountain-blessed, and not because of the deconeus of St. Penryn. A Genevese merchant named Kohler told me so. You are a valuable man, Ransom Barton. So tell me. What will it take to secure your loyalty? What do you want?”
The words of King Estian twisted into Ransom’s heart. He had to admit he felt tempted. Here was the King of Occitania offering him the one thing his heart desired—something he feared his own king would never give him. Doubt was a subtle poison. He breathed out slowly.
“Why do you hesitate?” Estian asked.
“Because I do not trust you, my lord,” Ransom answered honestly.
“You’ve given your loyalty to the wrong man,” Estian said. “He will not be king for long.”
A bur of anger pierced Ransom’s heart. “Yet I will stand by him.” As he said the words, he felt the Fountain magic pulse through him.
“Even if you stand alone?” the king asked. “I knew you were coming. I didn’t think Devon would be foolish enough to invade Occitania, so I didn’t muster all of my strength. But I am doing so now, and I will use all of it against him. He’s too proud to see it. And too blind to prevent it. Help yourself, Ransom. If he falls, you will not get the woman you adore. I do not reward my enemies. And if you fear for your countrymen, know this. I’ll give Devon anything he asks for as long as I get you.”
“How would you get Claire out of Kingfountain by tonight?” Ransom demanded.
“I won’t tell you that unless we are agreed. But I do not make boasts I cannot fulfill. You know I have ways of getting what I want. Of seeing things I should not be able to see. I will share those secrets with you if you serve me.”
Ransom stopped walking, his head buzzing with anger and with the allure of the offer. But there could only be one answer—his integrity demanded it. So did the Fountain. He could not forget its last whisper to him. Even if he did not always agree with the King of Ceredigion, he needed to protect the Argentine line.
“I cannot serve you, my lord. I already serve a king. I came here on his behalf.”
Estian’s face darkened with the rejection. “And what does Devon want now?”
“The duchy of Bayree. And fifty thousand livres.”
Estian’s eyes widened with surprise. And then he started to laugh.
Good news at last! I can’t trust my hand, or my heart, to write any more than this. But I am so grateful he finally wrote to me. He assured me that he is completely hale, although I assume he’s just being brave. Most of the letter was about the young knight in his mesnie, Dearley, who sounds like a charming fellow. Ransom told me that Dearley and his other ward, Elodie, remind him of the two of us when we were young, which is a bit peculiar considering we were so much younger when we lived at the castle together. I’d like to think he means they share an affection for each other, for it might mean that Ransom still thinks of me in ways he dare not say.
—Claire de Murrow
Queen’s Tower
(gratefully)
CHAPTER EIGHT
Writ of Peace, Frown of War
When Ransom reached the king’s pavilion, he quickly dismounted. Dearley took Dappled’s reins with the promise to tend to the horse. Ransom fished the signed scroll from his saddlebag, smelling smoke and cooked bacon in the air, and then strode into the pavilion, through the tent door tied open to let in air and light.
Within he found the Elder King with his two sons, Goff and Benedict, along with Duke Wigant of North Cumbria and Lord Kinghorn of Westmarch. When Ransom and Benedict exchanged a look, the young duke’s lips became a tight line.
“So he is back already,” Benedict said bluntly.
Goff turned quickly, and his eyes flickered with resentment. Was it because of Ransom’s last tournament in Brythonica, he wondered? He’d cut off the arm of his wife’s champion in the midst of a duel.
“Ah!” said the king eagerly. He rubbed his hands together and came to meet him in the center of the tent. “What is that scroll? Have you done it?”
“Estian wants peace, not war,” said Ransom, handing the scroll to the king. “Although he’s prepared to fight you still, he’s agreed to these terms, along with the condition of a truce of two years.”
The king accepted the scroll and broke off the sealed ends. “Does he now? How like a dog to want to start licking his wounds. Let me see what I find here. Hmmm . . . some courteous nonsense, superfluous titles, ahhh! The meat!”
Benedict and Goff both came to stand by the king and peered over his shoulder. Before Benedict glanced down at the writ, he flashed another glance at Ransom. He held some resemblance to Devon the Younger, although his eyes were bluer, his face rounder, and he bore the signs of battle, the white scar on his cheek and cheekbone, his temple. The younger Goff had no battle scars at all.
“Interesting,” said the king. “He does give us the duchy of Bayree, or the rights to control it through the duke’s niece and heir, Alix, through a marriage alliance.” He lowered the scroll a bit, his brow furrowing. “Where have I heard that name? No matter. She is the heiress, her uncle is dead, and thus we gain control of the duchy through her, along with the rights of wardship—a yearly increase of twelve thousand livres—” The king stopped abruptly. “You didn’t count that living as part of the treaty, did you? I said I wanted fifty thousand.”
“Read on, my lord,” said Ransom, having anticipated that very reaction.
“It’s there, Father,” Goff said, pointing to the scroll.
“I can read for myself, cub. My eyes are not failing. Ah, there it is. You negotiated seventy-five thousand? To be paid . . . let me see . . . annually over the span of two years beginning now and ending at the culmination of the truce. But I want it now.”