—Claire de Murrow, the Never Queen
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Death of the First Argentine
The next morning waxed hot and oppressive. The previous evening had promised a storm, but the clouds had fallen apart, and a merciless sun beat down on Tatton Grange, unusually hot for spring. One of Benedict’s knights, wearing the badge of the Lion, had brought Ransom the duke’s parting message. I will be at the sanctuary of Our Lady in Fountainvault. Tell me when he dies.
Ransom thought it interesting that Benedict had chosen to wait out his father’s death before returning to the palace to claim his kingdom. Was it distrust that motivated him? Or respect for his father and a desire to see that he received the appropriate funeral rites?
The smell of sickness in the king’s chambers was overpowering. After surrendering his crown to his son and imparting his whispered curse, Devon had lost all his remaining strength. Ransom had carried him back to the room. He lay on the bed, thrashing in pain, asking again and again to see the list of those who had betrayed him.
“When my life is over,” the king rasped, breathing heavily and with pain, “find my son Jon-Landon. See that he escapes.”
Ransom, who had been pacing in the chamber, approached the bedside again. “If that is what you wish,” he said without enthusiasm.
The king’s eyes were bloodshot and fevered. “I gave the crown to Benedict on purpose, you know. If I’d denied him his victory . . . if I had refused to concede and named Jon as my heir instead, he would have k—” The king doubled over in a terrible cough, breaking up his words. It took several long moments and some desperate gasping before he was fit enough to speak again. “I know my sons. Despite what they might think. Jon-Landon is a good boy. But he’s too young to be king. He’s not ready for the burden. Ugh, but this hurts! He’s in Glosstyr by now. When he’s older and stronger, he can challenge Benedict for the throne. You see? I will get my revenge at last. But if I’d goaded Benedict, if I’d sworn that Jon-Landon was my heir, then he would have hunted down his brother. And p-put his head on a spike just to spite me. It’s too soon. Too soon. Gorm . . . how it hurts!” He doubled over again.
“Do you want some wine?” Ransom asked softly.
“No . . . no thank you. I wish . . . I wish I could have seen Emiloh one last time. I . . . I miss her. She was meant to be a queen. Of Occitania . . . or Ceredigion. Without her support, I wouldn’t have won it, you know. It took our combined strength to win.” He gazed into Ransom’s eyes, his words becoming more slurred and delirious. “I should have let her out of the tower. I should have . . . forgiven her.” He panted through his words. “You don’t understand, though, Ransom. You’re so young still. I remember . . . it wasn’t that long ago . . . I felt invincible. Like Benedict does. The fool.” He stopped speaking, staring into the distance at his empty memories, seeing things that Ransom could not. “When a woman betrays you . . . it is the worst kind of pain.” His teeth clicked together, rattling. “She cared more for her offspring than for me. Those little vultures that pierced me and tore me to pieces. I should . . . have . . . forgiven her. It sowed the seeds of my ruin. I see that now. How I see it!” He tried to clench a fist, but then his strength failed, and he slumped down on the pillows again, sweat streaming down his face. He passed out and slept. Ransom saw the jeweled rings on his fingers, a sign of his wealth and authority, but no amount of wealth could prolong his life or grant him another breath. The end was nigh.
Ransom backed away from the bed and went and sat in a chair, cradling his head in his hands. Gervase, then the Younger King, and now the father. Powerful men all, each had been humbled by death, which took a king as readily as it did a peasant. It made him feel the vagaries of life keenly.
He hadn’t sensed Alix’s presence since the previous evening, when Estian had left for Pree with his twenty-five thousand livres. Thinking on her made him want to do her violence. She’d caused so much death, so much pain. The cruel thoughts repulsed him, though, reminding him of what she’d said about his true nature.
Thinking of Claire didn’t bestow the comfort it usually did. Their future lay in ashes.
In the silence of that miserable room, he begged the Fountain to reveal its will to him. To help him understand all that had happened. Was he truly intended to protect Jon-Landon, a boy who did not seem worthy of such loyalty? But there was only silence.
He didn’t know how long he’d sat there in that state, mired in misery, but a swift knock on the door was followed by the sound of it clicking open. He saw his brother, Marcus, in the doorway. The king was still asleep. The knock had not roused him.
Ransom rose and met his brother at the door. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s over, Ransom,” said his brother with a sigh. “I’ve just come from Fountainvault. Don’t condemn me, but I made peace with Benedict and swore fealty to him. He said I can keep the castle of the Heath. He’s asked for the wardship of Maeg, for now, to ensure my good faith.”
Ransom’s stomach sank with the news. Maeg would be hostage to Benedict? That was a blow he hadn’t expected.
“I don’t condemn you,” he said softly. “His rule is over.”
“Is the king awake?” Marcus asked, trying to peer over Ransom’s shoulder.
“No, he’s—”
“Who’s there? Who’s talking?” Their brief communication had roused the king again. He sat up, his expression pained. “Ransom, who’s there?”
He turned. “It’s my brother.”
Marcus paled and then handed Ransom a folded and sealed note. The wax was still warm. “This is the information he requested. About those who’ve made peace.”
Ransom took the sealed paper.
The king grew impatient. “Quit whispering. What news? Is that a message? What’s in your hand? Give it to me!”
Ransom met Marcus’s gaze as his brother slowly shut the door, leaving them alone again. His heart panged for his sister, and he wished he could see her to offer words of comfort and support. But he pushed aside his own troubles and walked back to the king’s bed, holding the list of those who had rebelled.
“Is that it?” asked Devon eagerly. A noise rattled in his throat, as if he would start coughing again. Ransom sensed the king’s weakness, knew his time was measured in hours now.
“It just came from Fountainvault.”
The king reached out a trembling hand. “Give it! This is important, Ransom. Jon-Landon’s hopes hinge on this. Once I know who was faithful to me, I can tell you who you must rally to his cause. That’s why I want to see it. It’s the last thing I can do for my son, my faithful Jon-Landon. He deserves better than what he got. Ahhh!”
He took the proffered note and scraped at the seal with his fingernail until it peeled away. With shaking hands, he began to unfold it.
“Bring me light,” he asked, and Ransom fetched one of the burning candles.
Devon’s hands continued to tremble as he opened it. Ransom held the light closer so that the king could read the list. He got no farther than the first name.
“No,” he gasped.
In the light, Ransom had seen it too. The first entry on the list was: Jon-Landon Argentine, surrendered at Dunmanis at night.