The king died at midnight.
He’d spoken no other intelligible words since that whispered no. But the grief-stricken wail he’d bellowed would haunt Ransom’s memories until the day he, too, died. Ransom should have realized the truth about Jon-Landon’s late-night visits to a lover. Reading Jon-Landon’s name on that list had been an awful, devastating blow for the king—the crushing of a final, beloved hope.
Ransom had read the rest of the list, name after name of those who had betrayed the king. He even found Lord Kinghorn’s name on the list, near the bottom, with an oath of fealty contingent on the death of the rightful king. It wasn’t a betrayal, not like Jon-Landon’s, and it didn’t surprise Ransom to see it there.
When dawn finally came, Ransom left the king’s corpse in the room and roused Dawson and Guivret, who’d been sleeping outside the door all night.
“Ready the horses,” he said to them. “We’re riding to Fountainvault.”
“The king’s dead?” Dawson asked with bleary eyes.
He nodded and watched as his knight and squire walked away. He had little left to reward them with. Soon Josselin castle would be taken by the crown. He still had wealth, but a king could strip him of that if he so willed. Benedict would need money, and quickly after having waged war, especially given the heavy cost of the peace treaty.
They rode out shortly thereafter, the rising sun already blistering hot. It would be another unusually sweltering day. But it felt good to be on a horse again. It helped improve his mood, if only a little.
The sanctuary in Westmarch was situated along a river that had been dammed to create a man-made waterfall along its length. Although pleasant to look at, it was not as grand or majestic as the ones in Kingfountain and Pree. When they reached it, they were met by one of Benedict’s knights.
“I recognize you, Sir Ransom,” said the man. “Do you bring tidings for the king?”
He nodded and dismounted. The knight escorted the three of them into the sanctuary. The new king stood by the one shallow pool. His expression was impassive, and he had a coin in hand.
“I was about to toss it in,” he said as they approached. “But perhaps your news will suspend it from splashing.” He turned to look at Ransom. His expression revealed nothing. “Is he recovered? A miracle?”
“No, my lord,” Ransom answered. “He died in the night. The news about Jon-Landon broke him.”
Benedict pursed his lips and rubbed his long beard. “I knew it would.” He turned and tossed the coin into the waters. It sank immediately to the bottom, mixing with the tarnished coins already there. Then he folded his arms. “The prince sent a young lass from Dunmanis to plead his case. No one noticed the trick, not even the knight sent as his bodyguard. He knew Father’s health was failing. And he made the right choice, joining me instead of dying.” Was there the hint of a threat in those last words? A lesson intended for Ransom?
“I’ve fulfilled my pledge,” Ransom said. “Shall I have the body prepared to bring back to the palace?”
“No,” Benedict said, shaking his head. “He died as the Duke of Westmarch, and this is where he’ll receive the rites. Bring his body here, Ransom. We will do this properly. Then your duty to him is fulfilled. Besides, I wouldn’t want you knocking down Sir James again like you did at my brother’s funeral rites.” He gave Ransom a wry smirk that made him bristle.
“Yes, my lord,” Ransom answered stiffly. He bowed and left.
They rode back to Tatton Grange in silence, feeling the uncomfortable heat on their shoulders. The day seemed like any other, and the farmers and laborers continued their efforts without any awareness of the news. Or if they’d heard, they didn’t care.
When they reached the bedchamber, Ransom was shocked to find it had been ransacked.
“By the Lady!” Dawson whispered.
The king had been stripped of his clothes, down to his undershirt and linens. His body was half off the bed, slumped over. Anything of value in the room had been taken, including the jeweled rings on the king’s fingers. Ransom’s fury roused, and he told his young men to find the servants. He went to the bed and lifted the king’s frail body up, then wrapped it in a sheet. Seeing the vacant, soulless eyes nearly unmanned him. The king had always been such a force of nature.
When he’d finished, Guivret returned. “The servants are all gone.”
The disrespect shown to the king made Ransom’s anger intensify. He turned to Dawson. “Make a litter. We’re going to drag the body to the sanctuary with the respect it deserves. I’m furious at what they did.”
“He wasn’t loved,” Dawson said in disbelief. “Even among his own.”
He almost rebuked the young man but stopped himself. He looked at each one of them in turn. “Let this be a lesson to all of us, then. To try and do better.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Guivret. “You treated Sir Terencourt with great respect.”
“True. But it’s easy to do the right thing when everyone is watching. Your true measure is taken when no one is.”
Dawson sniffed and nodded. He glanced at Guivret and then back. “Whatever happens, Sir Ransom, we’ve both decided to serve you. We talked on it last night. We are with you, even as you tended the king before he died.”
The look of entreaty on their faces made his throat catch. He put a hand on each of their shoulders. “Thank you. I won’t hold you to it. It is likely the king will exile me.”
“Lady Constance won’t forsake you,” Guivret vowed. “You wear the ring.”
Ransom shrugged. “She may not have a choice.”
“We’ll follow you to the end,” Dawson reiterated.
The young men arranged for a litter to be fastened to the horses, and Ransom carried the body, wrapped in a sheet, outside. As he rode to Fountainvault, he wondered if he’d ever see Kingfountain again . . . or Claire.
Benedict and his mesnie were waiting for them at the sanctuary, along with several lesser nobles who had gathered for the occasion. Marcus was among them. His friend Sir Simon had also come to pay his respects. He looked like he’d just arrived. His name had also been on the list.
Dawson and Guivret carried the litter with the king’s body into the sanctuary of Our Lady, where a table had been prepared to receive it. Benedict uncovered his father’s face and looked at it with tears in his eyes.
They performed the rites at midday. The deconeus of the sanctuary read the ceremonial words as they all waited along the shore of the river above the gentle shushing of the falls. Ransom felt bereft of his Fountain magic once again. His master lay dead. His future was as uncertain as a storm.
When the words were finished, Ransom looked at Benedict, who wore a rich velvet tunic despite the sweat glistening on his brow. It was a solemn occasion, and the new king showed a reserve and respect that was unusual. There was no gloating, no grin of victory. Indeed, Ransom could see Benedict was struggling with his emotions. He gave a curt nod to proceed.
The three on the right side of the boat were Ransom, Guivret, and Dawson. The three on the left were Sir Simon, Marcus, and Sir Thatcher, who had been captured by Benedict’s men but allowed the privilege to see his master into the river. They walked to the edge of the river and then tilted the staves so that the canoe slid down them and landed with a splash. The sluggish current was quite different from the river before the falls at Kingfountain. They watched the boat gently bob as it went to the edge before landing with another splash on the other side. They stood there in solemnity, watching the boat until it turned a bend in the river and vanished from sight.