A pit of dread formed in Ransom’s stomach.
For the last two years, it has often felt like nothing would ever change. And then change comes so rapidly and quickly I cannot make sense of it. Sir Dalian brought news that Ransom returned today to Kingfountain and has been named part of the king’s council. At first I thought either my ears weren’t working or he was babbling like an eejit, but it’s true. He has returned from his pilgrimage at last. King Devon snatched him up like a river trout before any of the other Fisher Kings could ply their lures at him.
He’s the youngest member of the council, which is good for the king. He needs to hear different points of view, not just the opinions of his favorites. Sir Dalian said Ransom’s been given the castle at Josselin, which is quite a gift. I’ve been there once. It’s a solid piece, built during the older wars of conquest back when Ceredigion was first established.
I am so happy today to hear this news, especially since most of what we hear is grim these days. The conflict between the king and Benedict grows more fraught day by day. I’ve needed some good news.
I hope someday soon my path will cross with Ransom’s again. I’d like that very much. Sometimes I take out that bracelet I found by the cistern. Touching it makes me feel closer to him. I’ve been keeping it in a safe place, but perhaps I’ll start wearing it now and then.
—Claire de Murrow
(giddy with news at long last)
CHAPTER TWO
Broken Promises
Simon, who’d always had an observant eye, noticed the look on Ransom’s face. He patted him on the shoulder, giving him a sympathetic smile.
“Let’s go to the Hall of Records,” he suggested. “Come on. You’re not being dragged to a noose on the gallows, man. Not this time. Buck up.”
The Hall of Records was beneath the main floor of the palace and smelled musty with books, scrolls, and dust. It was a cavern of shelves full of documents: writs signed, taxes due, and orders from the prolific king. It was buzzing with people coming in and out, some bringing documents that needed copying, others requesting information from previous decisions. The man at the desk had what looked like a perpetually pained look on his face as he gave orders to his underlings.
“That is Master Hawkes,” Simon said, pointing at him. “The master of the rolls. He organizes all this mess. Pedigrees, histories, and anything the king needs in order to make a decision. Ah, he sees us.”
The older man waved them forward, motioning for his underlings to back away from the desk.
“Who is with you, Sir Simon? I don’t recognize him.”
“Sir Ransom Barton,” said Simon.
The man’s furrowed brow relaxed somewhat. “I know that name. You’re the lad King Gervase saved from execution all those years ago. I’ve read something about it. You are not a child any longer it appears.”
“I should hope not,” Ransom said, smiling at the man.
“He’s been named to the king’s council,” said Simon.
“Has he indeed? Well, that is quite an honor. Or punishment, depending on how you view matters. Has the king granted him lands?”
“I think Josselin would suit him,” said Simon. “And he’s to start his own mesnie and take on one of the king’s wards.”
Master Hawkes rubbed his mouth thoughtfully. “Josselin . . . Josselin . . . the steward’s name is Westin, I believe. The castellan is an aging knight who has been asking to retire for several years, but the king hasn’t allowed it. He’s done well enough, although I’m sure he’ll be relieved to hear the news. What wards?”
“He asked me to choose them,” said Simon. “I was thinking John Dearley.”
“Ah, John Dearley, son of the late Malcolm Dearley of Coomb Manor. I believe the lad is sixteen and waiting impatiently to inherit his lands when he comes of age. A good choice. Shall I have him sent to Josselin castle? Along with a writ notifying the steward of the change?”
“That would be appreciated,” answered Simon. “The king also wishes to give his new ally another ward, an heiress. Who is available?”
Ransom’s stomach became queasy again.
“Lady Buttifer’s daughter is six years old.” Master Hawkes smiled and shook his head. “Probably too young.”
“I think someone closer in age would be better,” Simon said. He glanced at Ransom. “You don’t have to marry the girl. It’s just an . . . option. When I joined the king’s council, I was given wardship of a young lady named Charlaine, Lord Nicholes’s daughter. We became fond of each other and . . . well, now she’s my wife.”
“I didn’t know you were married,” Ransom said. “Congratulations.”
Simon shrugged and beamed. “We are very different, but I’ve never been happier. If you take in someone who’s too young, you become like a father to them. You know what it’s like since that’s how you came to Kingfountain. If the person you take in is a woman, and she’s older . . . well, the expectation is that you’ll marry her. If you want to.”
The queasiness in Ransom’s stomach only increased. He looked over at Master Hawkes, who had a shrewd look in his eye. “The king will expect you to take a wife, Sir Ransom,” he said. “Posterity is power. I am a grandfather. The older I get, the more I understand that truth.” His eyes narrowed a little. “I should think he’d be a decent match for Lady de Murrow.”
Simon snorted. “So does he, unfortunately. The king still wants her for Jon-Landon.”
Master Hawkes sighed. “That isn’t a good match, but there’s no convincing the king when his mind is made up. There are four other ladies under the king’s wardship right now. I think perhaps . . . Lady Elodie.”
“Of Namur? Isn’t she twelve?”
Master Hawkes frowned as if he wanted to contest that, but rather than speak out of hand, he rose from the desk and walked to a shelf behind him. He withdrew a large leather-bound book and brought it back to the desk, then quickly opened it and riffled through pages.
“Lady Elodie of Namur, heiress of Lord Kenford of Namur, was born . . . ah, that would make her fifteen years old.” He tapped the page and gave Ransom an assessing look. “A possible match. Namur brings in three thousand livres a year. Coupled with Josselin castle, you’d do very well for yourself.”
“Her income would go to you while she’s your ward,” said Simon, looking more and more interested. “And you still have your castle at Gison and your manor in Brythonica.”
“Impressive,” said Master Hawkes. “Sir Ransom, you have a strong start in life. Not many knights your age have done half so well.” He rubbed his mouth again. “You were the one Queen Emiloh ransomed, were you not? Ah yes, I remember that well. Five thousand livres she paid for you.”
A heavy sum to pay for a single knight’s ransom.
Thinking of it put him in mind of Emiloh’s daughter, the poisoner who’d brought him a loaf of moldy bread filled with bandages when he was Lord DeVaux’s prisoner. He’d only survived because of her, but she’d later reopened that very wound with a poisoned dagger and a crossbow.