“It’s not necessary,” Ransom said. He nodded to Simon and continued on his way to the stairs leading to the solar, leaving his friend behind.
After climbing up several steps, he stopped and put his hand on the wall, lowering his head to steady his emotions before he saw the king. His fingers coiled into a fist, and he shut his eyes, trying to let the anger leach away. How long he waited, he didn’t know. But he stayed like that until he heard footsteps coming, and then he started up the stairwell again, feeling the heat of the torches hanging from sconces in the wall as he passed them. His emotions were still churning, but not at the same fevered pitch.
When he reached the top, he went to the solar and tapped on the door.
“What is it?” barked the king’s voice.
Ransom pushed on the handle, and the door opened, revealing the scene within. A fire sizzled in the hearth, and the windows had been left open, letting in a cool night breeze and the sound of the distant falls, but the pleasant atmosphere was soured by the look of ill will between the king and Lord Kinghorn, who’d clearly been in the midst of a fraught conversation.
“I’m disturbing you.” Ransom apologized and started to close the door.
“No, come in,” said the king. “You are late, Ransom. I expected you yesterday.”
Ransom had not agreed to return at a certain time, nor had he been asked to. He eyed Lord Kinghorn worriedly, seeing the anger in the other man’s eyes.
“You may go, Bryon. We’ll address your concern in the king’s council tomorrow.”
“If that is what you wish,” said Lord Kinghorn. Ransom opened the door wider. He’d never seen the king quarrel with Lord Kinghorn before. It increased the unease in Ransom’s stomach, particularly since he valued his kinsman’s judgment. Lord Kinghorn nodded to him, but his brooding expression held no warmth. He shut the door behind him.
Ransom looked at the king, who seemed no less agitated than he had in the midst of the argument. “So. Have you come to gripe at me as well?”
“No, my lord,” Ransom said, his confidence beginning to waver.
“I gave you Lady Elodie and her lands. You sniffed and turned your head.” The king folded his arms, pacing a few strides before turning back. “Now I give you a duchy in enemy territory, which will increase the size of our kingdom and protect our borders. But you don’t care for the girl. Is that it? Your desire is still fixed on that Gaultic . . .” He seemed on the verge of using a slur, but he held it back. “Is that it, Sir Ransom? You came to tell me no?”
Ransom felt the conflict writhing inside him. He should reveal what he had learned. Didn’t the vows he’d taken command it? But the king was in an especially dark mood, and he couldn’t bring himself to share the news. Not yet. And his feelings were still a confusing knot of emotions, his loyalties confused.
“No,” he said to the king.
“I knew it,” snarled Devon angrily.
“You mistake me, my lord. I was disagreeing with you. My feelings are different from what you suppose.”
His words caused a look of surprise to radiate across the king’s face. “Indeed, lad? You will do as I command? For the good of the kingdom?”
“It was not what I expected,” Ransom said. “Lady Alix and I had met before.”
The king gaped at him. “How can that be?”
“When I was a hostage to Lord DeVaux,” he answered. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but Lord DeVaux fled to Bayree to hide from your wrath. I was delirious. I’d lost a lot of blood. Lady Alix brought me bread and bandages. She saved my life that day.”
The king’s look transformed to one of exquisite joy and wonder. “That is an astonishing coincidence. She helped heal you? I’m agog. It’s rare for me to be at a loss for words.” He strode forward and hooked his hand around Ransom’s neck, as if he were one of his own sons. It made him feel disloyal for withholding part of the truth. “Good for you, Ransom. If she pleases you, that is even better. I propose a winter wedding, when there will be peace, not because of a treaty but because of deep snow.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Ransom said, feeling simultaneously grateful and guilty. The urge to speak filled his chest, but the words refused to rise.
“I couldn’t be more pleased with you. This is news of the rarest kind . . . good news! I have some errands for you to perform for me in the interim. We must make good use of the season before it changes. There isn’t much time.”
“Much time for what?” Ransom asked.
“I intend to send you to Brugia to deliver a threat and arrange a peace. A marriage proposal, if you will, for Benedict. We’ve had too many Occitanian entanglements of late. And you have a reputation in Brugia, because of the way you fought the last time they attempted an invasion.” He grinned like a wolf. “A bride for Benedict—one who comes with extensive lands, of course—and one for yourself. I intend to make him my heir and crown him as I did his brother, but he needs a queen. All he has to do is give up the Vexin to Jon-Landon.” He rubbed his hands together. “Everything will be settled at last.”
“I don’t think Benedict will be agreeable to that,” Ransom said in a wary tone.
The king snorted. “Nonsense. He’s no fool. I fully intend to give him the power he thinks is his due. Within five years, he will be ruling most of the kingdom. I’ll transfer control gradually so that he can prove his capability. Plus I’ll give him some livres to sweeten his sorrow at losing the duchy. He’ll accept it. Trust me. This is what he wants.”
Ransom didn’t want to spoil the moment with the truth, but he dared it. “I think you’re wrong. He told me that nothing would persuade him to peacefully part with the Vexin.”
The king sniffed at Ransom’s answer. “I’ll send a courier. I trust my judgment more than yours.”
So the rumors are true. Ransom has returned to Kingfountain, and he is promised to the future duchess of Bayree. He could have told me himself, the brute.
I didn’t believe Sir James, not at first. One shouldn’t make a habit of trusting serpents or eejits. But Sir Dalian confirmed it, having the news from his father. Why am I so surprised? I shouldn’t be. There was no promise between us, no talk of a shared future. And I haven’t received a letter from him for some time. Yet it still hurts. The queen says she understands the pain I feel—the shards of a broken heart dig deeper than any sword. How maudlin I’ve become.
The world is not fair. Why should I have expected it to be fair to me? Sir James’s offer hangs over my head like a sword of doom. Yet the thought of him touching me fills me with revulsion. I don’t think I could bear it.
—Claire de Murrow
(forlorn isn’t the right word . . . some words do not do justice to pain)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Ghost King
Sleep would not come to Ransom’s eyes. The churning feelings of anguish, guilt, and concern battled inside his mind and heart, offering no relief, no solace. He thought on Claire, imprisoned in that tower, and it made him want to weep. He thought about the look of pleasure on King Devon’s face, and it made his heart shrivel with guilt. He considered what Lord Kinghorn would think of him if he learned the truth, and it made him more than miserable. He was positively wretched.