“You’re a sunburnt chap, Sir Knight,” said the merchant who’d sold him the sausage. “Where do you hail from?”
“I come and go,” Ransom replied evasively. He thanked the man for the food and then walked Dappled through the crowded street. No one looked at him in recognition. A bridge straddled the river and the falls, and Ransom noticed some new construction had been done in his absence. The bridge had been widened, and some inns had been built along the sides. As he walked past the gate of the sanctuary of Our Lady, he was tempted to stop in and throw a coin into one of the many fountains, but he no longer felt the superstitious need to do so. His connection to the Fountain was stronger after his visit to the oasis. Instead, he mounted Dappled and rode to the palace gates, where he was met by a group of knights in tunics bearing Devon Argentine’s standard of the Silver Rose. He recognized one of them, but the others were new.
“What brings you to Kingfountain, good sir?” asked the knight he knew, who looked up at him without paying him any notice. His name was Sir Bannon, and Ransom had trained with him years before.
“You don’t recognize me, Bannon?” Ransom asked, wondering if his longer hair and full beard had disguised him.
Bannon’s eyebrows furrowed. “You know my name.”
“Is the king here?” Ransom asked.
The other man’s brow knotted, but something lit in his eyes. “Are you Sir Ransom?”
He nodded in response to the question, giving the other knight a beleaguered smile. “I’ve come a long way.”
“By the Fountain!” gasped Bannon, growing excited. “It is you. It’s been years, man! Yes, the king is here. He’s meeting with the lords of the realm. I’ll come with you. What an ugly horse; where did you get it?”
Ransom dismounted. “I wouldn’t trade Dappled for the finest black in the king’s stables. He’s a sturdy beast. And he won’t bite off your ear.”
“Good to know,” chuckled Bannon. He ordered the knights to take care of Ransom’s horses and belongings, and then escorted him to the main gate. Before they reached it, Ransom stared up at the queen’s tower one last time, feeling a deep, familiar ache in his chest.
The interior of the palace had changed little since the funeral of the Younger King. He felt a stab of old pain from that memory. Even now, the corridors were so familiar to him. Two years of dirt, sand, and thirst seemed to melt away. He could have walked blindfolded to the great hall where the council usually met. They reached the doors, which were guarded, and the captain, who’d been speaking to the sentries, turned to look at him.
It was Sir Jude, one of Lord Kinghorn’s knights. Ransom had defeated him at the siege of Arlect, part of the Younger King’s attempted insurrection, and won a ransom from him.
“You!” Sir Jude said in astonishment.
“You recognized him before I did,” said Bannon with a grin. “He came to see the king.”
“Wait here,” Jude said. There was no anger or resentment in his eyes. Just surprise. He opened the door, entered, and shut it behind him.
Bannon gave Ransom a knightly salute, which was reciprocated, and the older man left. The other knights at the door didn’t look familiar.
Sir Jude returned and gave Ransom a measuring look but said nothing. Moments later, another knight Ransom recognized, Sir Iain, emerged from the throne room. He’d once served the queen, but his presence at the council meeting indicated he’d won the king’s favor. When his gaze found Ransom, he shook his head in surprise.
“Look at you,” said Sir Iain. “The king would see you. Now.”
Ransom followed him in and found himself the immediate center of attention. The nobles had gathered around a table filled with trays of food and carafes of wine, but the Elder King was pacing in his usual restless way. When he saw Ransom approach, he offered a welcoming smile.
“You’ve aged five years in the time you’ve been gone,” said the king with his typical caustic tone. “But there’s no doubt as to who you are. Sir Ransom Barton, in the flesh. Well, you took long enough in your journey. You’ve just returned, or have you been idling elsewhere? Not at your castle in Gison, or I would have heard about it.”
“I’ve just returned from my journey,” Ransom said. “I was going to return to the Heath to see my kin, but there is no port in that direction.”
The king chuckled at the humor. “Indeed not, I should say. It’s been what . . . three years?”
“Two, my lord.”
“Pfah, it could have been one for all I care. You’re back. Well, are you ready to get to work? I have an assignment for you, which I think would be especially suitable.”
Ransom stared at the king in surprise. “My lord?”
“Quit that courtly nonsense at once! I don’t have time for it. Let me be clear. If you were serving one of the other kings, I would have heard about it. I pay well to remain informed of such things. Clearly you have no liege lord, and since I am in need of able men, you chose wisely in seeking me out first. I want you to serve me, Ransom. Beginning today. Is that clear? Do you need it in a writ?”
When Ransom had left, the Elder King had given him no indication that his service would be wanted. The man had simply told him, “Do what you must.” He had intended to make the king aware of his return, but this welcome was entirely unexpected.
“Am I to understand that you want me in your mesnie?” Ransom asked, feeling the fires of hope. On his last day in Kingfountain, at the Younger King’s funeral, he’d knocked James Wigant down with a staff and earned the king’s ire. Or so he’d thought. Apparently, the incident had been forgiven or forgotten.
“Mesnie? Don’t be a fool. I want you on my council. That is my true mesnie. You’ll be starting your own mesnie now. You couldn’t have returned at a more useful time. I’m about to invade the Vexin, but now it might not be necessary.”
Ransom blinked in surprise. “The Vexin? Doesn’t your son . . . ?”
“You’ve been gone a great while. Come, let’s introduce you to the rest of the council.” He grabbed Ransom by the arm and led him to a long table where the nobles had seated themselves with their food.
“Kinghorn . . . Constable . . . you already know him,” he said, gesturing to the man who had overseen Ransom’s training as a knight. Ransom barely had time to nod to him before the king moved on to the next man. “That is Duke Wigant. His son, a good friend of yours—am I correct?” He uttered a wicked laugh.
“I remember Sir Ransom,” said the older duke with a glint in his eyes.
“Duke Ashel of Stowe,” said the king, continuing around the table. “Duke Rainor of Southport. Also on the council are Sir Iain, you already know him, and Lady Deborah of Thorngate castle. Her husband was a great advisor to me, until he got the pox and died, and then I discovered that all of his best ideas came from her!”
Lady Deborah was a diminutive woman with gray-streaked hair the color of hazelnuts, but she seemed completely undaunted by the many large men around her, Ransom included. She gave him a gracious smile.
“And there, of course, is my chief steward, Simon of Holmberg, who you already know as well. See? We are all acquainted already.”