“She came to me last night,” the king wheezed.
Ransom blinked in surprise. He hadn’t felt her presence, but then, he’d been exhausted and sleepless for several days.
“Alix?” he asked the king.
“Yes. The girl. The poisoner. She looked just like Emiloh. Nngghh! I thought . . . I thought it was a vision. So young . . . just as I remembered her.”
Ransom stepped forward. “Did she give you anything?”
“No, my boy. Nothing. She touched my brow. That is all. Then she looked at you asleep in the chair. She cares for you. I think even a serpent can love. But she is . . . she is just as deadly as one.” His voice dropped off as he panted, trying to endure the pain. “You chose . . . better . . . for yourself.”
He had, but he suspected that door had forever closed when he’d lanced Benedict’s horse out from under him.
Ransom approached the bed and gripped the king’s hand, unable to offer any other comfort. The king looked toward the curtains. “Is it morning, then?”
“Yes,” Ransom said. “Are you hungry?”
“I’ve eaten fire, and it burns me up on the inside,” said the king. “Some water, though, might douse the worst of the flames.”
After Ransom fetched a cup and gave it to the king, the door opened, and an Occitanian servant entered with a jovial look.
“Ah, he is awake!”
“I never slept,” grumbled the king after slurping some water.
“My king has arrived. And so has your son, Duke Benedict of Vexin. They have come to negotiate a peace, an end to the war. Shall I bring them in, my lord?”
“You shall not!” wheezed the king. “I will meet them in the great hall. Ransom, help me up.”
The man looked surprised by the claim. “Very well, Your Grace. I will inform them.”
When the fellow had departed, Ransom helped the king rise. The only clothes he had were the ones he had brought with him, and despite the heat, he demanded to wear the wolf-pelt cloak. The king stood by the bedstead, his legs trembling to support his weight.
“The crown,” he rasped.
Ransom opened the leather pouch and drew out the hollow crown. He felt its weight and heard the rippling of water in a distant stream. With a grieving heart, he helped put the crown on Devon’s head. As it rested there, the king’s eyes shut, his jaw muscles bulging. He reeked of sweat.
“Let me hold your arm,” he asked, clutching Ransom like a staff.
They walked slowly to the door and found two of Devon’s knights standing guard. One shuffling step at a time, they walked down the hall. The king’s eyes were fixed on the doorway leading to their destination. It took every measure of will and determination to make it, and his face shone with sweat by the time they arrived.
Within the great hall, there were tables spread for a feast. Estian stood there dressed in the finery of his rank. His armored knights were spread throughout the room, glaring at Ransom with vindictive fury. Benedict was there, looking weary but rested, his hair tamed, his beard long and imposing. When he saw his father’s weakened state, a troubled look came in his eyes. But he did not come forward to assist him.
Ransom felt that he and the king were spectacles for derision as they approached down the center of the hall.
Estian seemed unnerved by the king’s weakened state. “My lord, please . . . have a chair. I had no idea you were so ill.” Was he being honest? Alix’s offer nudged in the back of Ransom’s mind. It unnerved him that he found it so compelling. If he had to go down, part of him wanted to take Estian with him.
“I shall stand,” said the king defiantly. He glared at both men, but it lacked the power it had once possessed. His whole body trembled. After catching his breath, he looked at his son. “I know what you want, and it’s yours. The throne. The entire kingdom. Your mother. The hollow crown. You’ve won. Take it. Take them all.”
Ransom could almost taste the bitterness in the king’s words.
Benedict didn’t gloat. He stared at his father without love, but his expression lacked any antipathy. His heart was scarred as well.
“I wonder if this is how you felt after defeating Gervase,” Benedict said. “I’d always assumed you had felt victorious. No matter. What’s done is done. I am the King of Ceredigion.”
“One thing more,” said Estian, his mood altering slightly. “There is something else required to ensure the peace.” He looked at Ransom, and his mouth twitched in a smile. “Seventy-five thousand livres to be paid annually over the span of three years beginning now and ending at the culmination of the truce.” He smirked. “And the duchy of Bayree. I think those terms are more than fair.”
Ransom winced at the reversal of fortunes. Of course, Estian had only paid a third of the agreed-upon sum before he’d found a way to slither out of the obligation.
The significance of the request was not lost on the king either. “Only seventy-five? So generous, Estian. So very generous of you. I shall leave the new king to pay my debt. He’s already stolen my treasury.”
“I will honor your agreement, Father,” said Benedict in a subdued voice.
“It is settled, then,” said Estian. “Peace instead of violence. It is the way of the Lady. May we conclude this truce with her kiss of peace. Between father and son at long last.”
Benedict approached his father for an embrace. Had he expected to feel his father’s pride? Perhaps he’d hoped to earn his respect by defeating him?
“I ask one more thing,” said Devon, holding up his hand. Benedict stood there, his moment of triumph tottering, on the verge of collapse. Would his father refuse to concede defeat even now?
Ransom didn’t know what the king was thinking. He remained stiff as a post, a source of strength for the king to lean on.
“What is it?” Estian asked, his words precise and clipped.
“Give me a list of those who defected,” said Devon. “Let me know the names of the rats. James Wigant being chief among them. I want to know who else betrayed me.”
“Very well,” said Estian. “You shall have it by tomorrow morning.”
The king bowed his head. “Thank you.” Then he removed his hand from Ransom’s arm and lifted the crown from his head. His arms trembled from its weight. Benedict stood in front of him, head slightly bowed, a look of remorse in his eyes. From his expression, it was apparent this moment had not lived up to his expectations, whatever those had been.
Devon put the crown on Benedict’s head. “It is yours, my son.” He pressed a gentle kiss on Benedict’s brow and then grabbed his son’s tunic in his fist, clenching it, his eyes wild with wrath. “May the Fountain grant I not die till I’ve had my revenge on you!”
I cannot shake this feeling that nothing will end well. I walk the corridors of Kingfountain, and all the servants are subdued and worried. Many whisper about what it will be like when Benedict is king. Everyone liked Devon the Younger. He always had a smile for people, even the lowliest. But Benedict has always been bold and impatient and relentless. The world exists to serve him and his interests. And then there’s the talk about how relentless he was in taming the Vexin.
My stomach is in knots today. The duke has always been jealous of Ransom. I fear that he will brook no rivals. When a knight or a noble is of no use or no longer trusted by a king, they are sent into exile. That is the fate I fear for my Ransom. I would take him to Legault if I could. I would claim him as my own, and we would stay away from Ceredigion forever. But that would require me to abandon my father’s home of Glosstyr. My fate is bound to both realms.