An uncanny feeling passed between them, like the ripples of a pond after a stone was cast in. They exchanged a look, and Ransom knew they’d both experienced it.
“I feel strange,” she whispered.
“So do I,” he answered.
They ate in silence for a while after that, and Ransom only knew that his heart was changing. It was uncomfortable, painful even, like a potter squeezing clay.
“When must you go?” she asked quietly.
As he struggled for an answer, Ransom realized he didn’t want to leave. There was a pull, a strong urge to declare that he’d stay at Kerjean for the rest of his life. Would it hurt Claire if he chose Alix? He’d made no vow, yet it wouldn’t feel right to move on without first discussing the situation with her, seeking her pardon and her blessing. Would he be able to do that when he returned to Kingfountain? Would the Elder King let him?
“Soon, I think,” Ransom said. He looked down at the bones and scraps on the plate.
Her shoulders drooped, and her countenance fell.
“But I should like to come back. Duke Benedict wished to see me. And I owe my king an answer about Bayree.”
She leaned forward, looking at him intently, worry and hope in her eyes. “What will you tell him?”
Ransom didn’t know. He still didn’t know.
“There are places I wish I could take you,” she said. “Bayree is beautiful. It’s every bit as pleasant as Brythonica, although there is more fog. The cliffs of Shialle are so lovely. And the trees. There are trees here that are older than the world, I think, with trunks so wide it would take a dozen knights to encircle one. And the fishing boats in the waters . . . there are so many varieties of fish to catch, some that are only found here. But you must make up your own mind. My need cannot outweigh your loyalty.” She offered a sad smile and looked away. “It’ll be you or another noble. An old man like Lord Kinghorn whose wife died long ago? Duke Wigant’s son? To me, there isn’t much of a choice. I have a strong preference, but I know it’s not the same for you.”
Ransom didn’t want to disappoint her. Conflict roiled inside him again. He’d enjoyed being with her, talking with her. The master of the rolls had advised him to find a wife quickly. Posterity is power. Of course, the man had also suggested he’d be a good match for Claire.
“It’s late,” Ransom said, feeling lethargic. His chest ached with the pressure.
“It is,” she said. And she rose and took the candle that hadn’t burned out yet. Only a small stub of it was left.
He offered her his arm and escorted her to the stairs. They climbed together, the castle dark and quiet. He could smell the tallow smoke wafting in the air. On the second floor, she released his arm and offered him the candle.
“I can find my way in the dark,” he said, refusing it with a little wave.
She nodded and started down the corridor to her own chamber. His heart burned within him as he watched the light dim. She opened the door and disappeared inside, quenching the small flame. There was enough moonlight coming through the windows that he could make out his path. He groped the banister and began to climb to the higher level.
There was no warning before the attack. He smelled the stink of sweat and blood, and then felt the heat of another body before it collided with his. A dagger stabbed his thigh, plunging deep into the muscle before hitting bone.
Ransom grappled with the man, his leg afire with pain, and then they were both tumbling down the stairs.
I received a secret note from Sir James this morning, delivered with our morning meal. It immediately disturbed my appetite. He wants to meet with me today when the queen and I visit the cistern garden. The reason—he’s heard that Sir Ransom will marry the heiress of Bayree. They say the king will give the duchy of Vexin to Jon-Landon and name Benedict heir to the throne. He may even give him the Hollow Crown.
Sir James knows I do not care for him, but he wishes to make an alliance with me regardless. Flattery I’m immune to. He’s learned as much. So he has taken a more practical approach: If we marry, I can rule Legault, and he will live apart from me in Glosstyr. If Benedict rebels, James plans to support him . . . so long as the prince agrees to this design.
I have agreed to speak to James in person if he can arrange it. Things do not always turn out the way we wish. I’d be foolish not to consider any option that will take me from this tower.
What would Jon-Landon do if he knew of his friend’s double-dealing?
—Claire de Murrow
Queen’s Tower
(hoping for freedom)
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Threat of Revenge
When their bodies struck the bottom of the stairs, Ransom felt the dagger strike his ribs, but the chain mail of the hauberk saved him from a death wound. Stunned, surprised, Ransom rolled over on the fellow and grabbed his wrist to hold the weapon at bay. A boot struck Ransom in the stomach, knocking him back.
“You will die . . . ,” the man wheezed in Occitanian, “for what you did! I served the duke. I will never serve you!”
He lunged at Ransom again. Twisting to the side, Ransom pivoted on his feet, and the fellow crashed into the stone wall at the edge of the stairs. The door to Alix’s chamber yanked open, spilling candlelight onto the scene. The man Ransom faced looked to be a knight, his face bruised, and he, too, wore a hauberk and bloodied tunic. Ransom saw the bloodstain on his side, saw the way his elbow pressed against it, the grimace of pain on his mouth.
His stores of Fountain magic had not yet been replenished, but he reached out with it and sensed his opponent was nursing injuries that were days old. He’d been at the battle.
Alix rushed down the hall. The rogue knight looked toward the light, and Ransom recognized his opportunity to charge him. He drove the other man back, bringing his forearm into the man’s throat. The knight jabbed him twice with the dagger before Ransom managed to deflect the blows with his arm.
“Die, you murderer!” the knight snarled.
Alix reached them and shoved the candle at the knight’s face, splashing him with the hot wax. The knight screamed in pain, and Ransom used his temporary distraction to knee him in the stomach. When the man collapsed, Ransom felt the visceral urge to bash his head onto the stone floor, but he tamed himself before the rash thought became realized.
“What happened?” Alix demanded with concern.
The knight groaned on the floor, covering his scalded face with his hands.
“He attacked me on the stairwell,” Ransom said, breathing fast. Pain lanced down his leg from the first stab wound.
“Are you hurt?”
“Not badly. His wounds are worse.”
“I’ll get another candle,” Alix said. She picked up the fallen knife and then handed it to Ransom. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said, grunting. He leaned back against the wall, his leg on fire.
“I will be right back.” Alix hurried to her room and returned with a torch. A knight came with her, one of her guards. She held the torch over the fallen man. “Who is it?”
Her knight pulled the man’s hands from his face. Some of the wax had hardened, and his nose was bleeding freely.
“It’s Sir Etienne,” said the knight, frowning in disgust.