Their eyes met, and Ransom tapped his own breast in the salute that knights gave one another. Benedict stood in the meadow, powerless to give chase as Ransom rode away. There could be no doubt between them who had won.
He wondered what Benedict’s feelings were in that moment, his eyes blazing as he stared at Ransom riding away from him. Was he grateful his life had been spared? Humiliated at his defeat? Benedict’s recklessness and impulsiveness had nearly cost him everything. Ransom could have tried to capture him—something that would have ended the conflict—but he knew the duke would have resisted, which would have given his men time to arrive and capture Ransom.
When Benedict did become king—for surely it would be a matter of when and not if—Ransom would be punished, which would once again leave him without someone to serve. He could be banished from the realm forever, or even killed. Yet he felt a calm assurance he’d done the right thing, that he had performed a final act of loyalty to his king.
With sadness chafing in his heart, he left the meadow behind as the other knights of the Vexin approached. He rode hard to try to catch up with the king, who was still fleeing for his life.
When he caught up with them at a distant hilltop, they were waiting for him. Ransom reached them, out of breath, and saw the king gazing back at the black smudge in the distance, the smoldering wreck of Dunmanis. His eyes seemed haunted.
Ransom looked back and saw that they weren’t being chased anymore.
Dearley edged closer on his horse. “They stopped hunting us. They went back and are helping put out the blaze.”
It was the right thing to do, and Ransom respected Benedict for the choice he’d made.
The king turned to Ransom. “You killed the horse instead?”
“Yes, my lord. I wouldn’t have killed your son.” As he said this, he saw a look of anger kindle on Jon-Landon’s face. The prince’s future was ruined—Benedict would win the throne. So be it. That was what the fates had written.
The king stiffened and then groaned, clutching his belly with one arm. Jon-Landon looked at his father worriedly.
“We need to get you to a healer,” Ransom said. “We should ride on.”
“You ride on to Glosstyr,” said the king, grunting in agony. “I don’t think I can make it that far.”
“Father?” Jon-Landon asked fearfully.
“I’m dying, boy,” said the king. “Ride on to Glosstyr with Sir Ransom. Seek shelter there.”
Dread twisted the prince’s features, but after a moment he nodded.
“I’m not leaving you,” said Ransom earnestly.
The king looked down, breathing in quick gulps. He clenched his jaw and shuddered with the torture. Then he gazed up at Ransom. “I want to die at Tatton Grange.”
Ransom frowned at him. “My lord, it’s in enemy hands now.”
“I know that. My end is near. My body is at war . . . with itself and losing the fight. Take me to the grange. Have Bennett . . . and Estian . . . meet us there. This conflict must end. Too many have paid the price. I . . . I yield.” He groaned again, nearly toppling from the saddle.
Ransom edged closer and grabbed the king by the arm to keep him from falling. He hated seeing the king in such pain. Poison was a coward’s way, and he thought of Alix and of Estian with malice.
The king looked up at Ransom. “Will you . . . take me there, boy?” There was blood on his lips. “It was always the place that I loved best in all the world.”
Grief overwhelmed Ransom. Although Devon and his family were more difficult than King Gervase, more mercurial, he had come to care about them as his own family. The pain of losing this king hurt just as badly as the loss of the old one. A feeling of failure weighed on him.
“I will, my lord,” he answered.
“I’m not going into Westmarch,” Jon-Landon said sullenly.
Ransom looked at Dearley. “Take the prince to Glosstyr. Then go to Josselin.”
The message was clear—if Dearley was to marry his love, it would need to happen now. The young man’s eyes shone with gratitude, and he nodded to Ransom. Then he turned to the prince. “Come with us.”
As they rode away, the king hung his head and gazed at the distant smoke of Dunmanis. “Curse the Fountain for this ruin. And curse my feckless sons!”
Disaster at Dunmanis. That is the only way to describe it. One of the Elder King’s knights who was at the battle brought the tale through fire, smoke, and enemies prowling around Kingfountain. We were all astonished by the story of the parting river and the horror of Dunmanis’s destruction. When last the knight had seen the king, he was fleeing to Glosstyr for refuge. It is my castle, and I cannot even be there to defend it or the king. No doubt Benedict and Estian will lay siege, and no doubt the king will flee by sea, but where? Where can he go? Everything is in ruin.
The knight also said that the king was very ill, that he could hardly keep atop his horse. I suspect treachery and poison.
Lord Kinghorn has ordered the queen to be released from her confinement. She is no longer bound to the tower. He said he would write to Benedict and pledge fealty to him if it is the Fountain’s will that he should rule. Everyone will flock to the prince now. They are all sheep fearing the wolves that are coming. But not my Ransom. I can’t imagine him changing sides until the very end, when the Elder King is bound on a boat and thrown into the waters. How long before that end? Only the Aos Sí knows.
—Claire de Murrow, Duchess of Glosstyr
The kingdom withering
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The King’s Curse
After clearing the final rise, they saw Tatton Grange in the valley below, looking just as it had when Ransom had last been there, except for the conspicuous flags showing the Fleur-de-Lis hanging from the turrets. The king’s face was gray as chalk, and he swayed in the saddle, his strength having withered even more during the journey.
“It pains me to see Estian’s flag hanging there,” said the king to Ransom as they paused atop the hill. “It ruins the view.”
Ransom stared down at the grange, the center of power in the duchy of Westmarch, now ceded to the Occitanians by Benedict. It was strange to think they were inside the borders of Occitania now, in land that had been ruled by the king who sat hunched in his saddle, his eyes watery, his lips flecked with blood.
They cantered down the hill with the few knights who remained with them. Ransom wondered where his own men were, the ones he’d brought from Brythonica and Glosstyr to Dunmanis. How many were still trying to reach Glosstyr? How many had been captured by their foes? The defeat they’d suffered was crushing.
During the journey, he had thought about the consequences about to befall him. There was no doubt in his mind that Devon was dying, that he had perhaps a few days left, if that. Ransom would surely lose everything he had gained, a reality that loomed over his head like the clouds that had gathered over them during the ride. He still bore the ring of the guardian of Brythonica. Would he end up in that duchy, in service to the duchess? How long would it be before Benedict drove him from that position too? Thicker clouds loomed on the horizon, a coming storm that was completely out of the ordinary.
As they advanced on Tatton Grange, Ransom felt a prickle of awareness go down his back. Alix was there, waiting for them. He sensed her clearly, her presence now unmistakable, and his heart seized up with dread. Had she come to claim him again as her prisoner? He glared at the walls with defiance. He would not become her captive. He would sooner die.