Ransom nodded in agreement. “I would like that.”
“The world is upside down,” said Dearley with a small chuckle. “The elder brother now seeks permission from the younger.”
“It is upside down,” agreed Ransom. “The second son seeks to wear the crown. Your letter is only half finished. Have you run out of words to Elodie already?”
Dearley’s smile was sad. “I’m afraid to write what I want to write.”
Ransom gave him a questioning look.
Staring down at the paper, Dearley sighed. “I fear the future, Ransom. I don’t want to give up hope, but even with the forces you brought, we are still mightily outnumbered. They have Genevese mercenaries, the Occitanian army, and Prince Benedict and all his men. We are so few. The king is ailing. If he dies . . . then all of my dreams may be shattered.”
“How so?” Ransom asked.
Dearley wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m your ward. If Benedict becomes king, then you won’t be on the king’s council anymore. And he could strip your rank away with the snap of his fingers.”
One of the knights on the floor mumbled in his sleep, causing them both to look that way. The quarters were cramped at the castle. They both smiled when the chamber fell silent again.
Dearley spoke in a whisper. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling,” he said. “I’m in anguish. I love Elodie, but I’m afraid to express it for fear of what will happen should we lose. Why raise her hopes only for them to be dashed?” He hung his head. “I don’t know how you can look so calm. I’m a wreck.”
Ransom did feel calm. Yes, the future was uncertain, but he’d become accustomed to that feeling. He’d suffered so many setbacks and losses the fear of it had drained away. But he remembered how crushing those first reversals of fortune had been, and he felt compassion for Dearley.
“Well, if you have nothing else to say in the letter, may I finish it?” Ransom asked.
Dearley gave him a perplexed look. “Of course.”
“Hand me the quill.”
Dearley did. “What are you going to tell her?”
“Some news I think she’ll be grateful to hear. I’m going to tell her that you both have my permission to marry. Whatever happens here, it doesn’t mean the two of you can’t be together. If we prevail, the deed is done. If we fail, it will still take Benedict time to reach the palace and take over. He may become king, but he cannot override the sacrament of marriage.”
Dearley stared at Ransom in disbelief. “But what about you and Lady Claire?”
The words tugged at Ransom’s heart. He’d never so keenly felt the distance between them, even when she had been locked in that tower, but he simply dipped the quill in the ink. “I’m giving you what can be given. Hope for the future.”
The army from Dundrennan has begun arriving, which has prevented communication from the Elder King from reaching us. The pompous duke of the North requested a meeting with Lord Kinghorn, but he was refused. The guards around the palace have been increased out of fear that someone within might betray the king and let the duke’s forces in. The dock warden of Kingfountain has ordered people to remain inside. We still control the ports, and so there are ships sailing in and out. Everyone is tense, worried that every plume of smoke might be a sign of a siege beginning.
And so we wait. And hope.
—Claire de Murrow, Duchess of Glosstyr
(waiting for the end)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Banners Unfurled
The previous day had been beautiful and clear, but a thick fog rolled in during the night, adding wetness that dripped down their armor and brought out the smells of dirt and grass. It was the kind that appeared in the early morning hours and tended to dissipate in the morning sun. The arrival of dawn was imminent, and Ransom hoped it would relieve them of the burden so they could see. He and his scouts had just ridden over the wooden bridge straddling Pervenshere River, venturing into the vast haze. The small group included his brother, two knights from the Heath, Sir Dawson, and Guivret. Ransom had asked Dearley to remain behind to defend the bridge with a host of men.
Those who had been on patrol during the night had reported nothing amiss. A few deer had been seen nipping at the meadow shrubs. That was all. But Ransom needed to discern the truth for himself.
“Can’t see a thing in all this gloom,” muttered Sir Dawson. Trees ghosted in and out of view.
“How far will we ride this morning?” Marcus asked Ransom.
“Farther than the patrols went,” Ransom replied. “If Benedict has turned toward Kingfountain, we’ll want to know.”
“Do you think he will? Or is he coming this way?”
Ransom sniffed. “He’ll batter down the walls of Dunmanis if the king stays.”
“Do you think he’ll be the next king?” Marcus asked in a low voice.
“I know he wants it.” He glanced at his brother. “How are Mother and Maeg holding up? Are they frightened?”
“They’re safe at the Heath. I think the castle can hold out for a long time,” Marcus answered, which was no answer at all. “These are dangerous times. We’ve been loyal to the Elder King for many years. I’m hoping that loyalty isn’t misplaced.”
Ransom frowned. “Keep your voice down.”
Marcus nodded, but the worry didn’t leave his eyes. If Benedict won, those who had faithfully supported his father would pay. Literally. Power would change hands. Lives would be transformed. Ransom’s gaze dropped to the leather bracelet he once more wore on his left wrist. A familiar ache throbbed in his heart.
If he could marry her now, this very minute, he would, but an untold number of troops stood between him and Kingfountain.
As the sun rose, it began to scatter the fog as predicted. They’d ridden perhaps a league away from Dunmanis, keeping an easy pace, when Ransom felt a prickle of warning go down his back.
“Hold,” he ordered, lifting a fist into the air. Their mounts came to rest, some nickering and stamping on the dirt road.
“Do you see something?” Marcus asked in disbelief. The fog had thinned, but it still hung in the air like a shroud.
Ransom gazed ahead, unable to discern the source of the warning. He sniffed the air for a clue but smelled nothing unexpected.
“Just wait,” he said softly, easing his shoulder muscles. The noise of the birds grew into a steady chatter, drowning out all other sounds. His steed stamped again with impatience.
“Scouts,” Dawson whispered.
Ransom looked up and saw three knights coming up the road at a leisurely pace. There were eight in Ransom’s group, which gave them an easy advantage.
“Shall we take them?” Marcus asked softly. “See what we can learn?”
A dark premonition filled Ransom’s mind. “Not yet. Wait.”
Still they lingered as the knights drew closer, seemingly oblivious to the danger they were blundering toward. The fog continued to abate, bringing in fresh streamers of sunlight.
And then, as if a wind had blown out a candle, the fog lifted, revealing an army stretched like a python down the road. Two banners hung side by side, held by heralds. The Lion of Benedict and the Fleur-de-Lis of Estian. Row after row of knights rode toward the castle, the sunlight now winking on the metal curvature of their armor.