She looked up into his eyes. “Come back to me, Ransom. I couldn’t bear it if I lost you.”
Her words sent a ripple of apprehension through him. He lifted her hands and kissed her knuckles. “I will come back.”
“You’d better,” she said with tears glistening in her eyes. “There’s a legend that the Aos Sí had the power to raise the dead for one night a year.” Her tearful smile told him that she didn’t truly believe in it. That maybe she truly was beginning to believe in what he had seen and heard. In what he knew in his heart to be true. “Don’t make me use heathen magic on you, Ransom Barton. Come back to me!”
“I promise,” he whispered huskily, trying not to focus on the sliver of doubt in his heart.
The morning was clear the day Ransom left for Glosstyr. And then, around midday, a wind rose from the sea that felled trees in the meadow and damaged the turret roofs at the castle. The ships at harbor were battered against the docks, and many took heavy damage. It came from nowhere. It is still summer, so the storm was unusual. An omen that makes my heart shiver with dread.
Ransom was at sea when that storm struck. The felled trees are being axed into wood to help prepare for the coming winter. And I must wait to learn if my husband arrived safely. Why does my heart murmur so? Why does it whisper that he may not be coming home?
—Claire de Murrow
Fair Isle
(in weather foul)
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Drowning of Leoneyis
The cog lurched down another swell, and Ransom gripped the edge of the table, catching his goblet before it slid off the top. His stomach clenched and heaved with the heavy pitching. It was an unseasonable storm, one that shoved and tossed the cog mercilessly. Unable to bear sitting, he rose to his feet and stumbled to the door, his footing like that of a drunkard.
He opened the door to his stateroom and gripped the handrails as he shuffled down the corridor. It took some effort to mount the stairs, and when he reached the deck, he was surprised to see the sail had been lowered. The wind and waves pounded the cog, and the crew wrestled with ropes to try to bind down the cargo. Some of the barrels had already been smashed, and the stink of pickled herrings rushed to his nose.
The main mast creaked and groaned, and sailors shouted at one another. Ransom stumbled forward, trying to reach the helmsman deck where the captain gripped the tiller with both hands and leaned against it with all his weight. Wind buffeted Ransom like an invisible giant. His hair whipped about, and his tunic rippled against the current as he struggled his way to the ladder and climbed it to join the captain.
“Did you throw a coin in the well before leaving, Lord Ransom? For safe passage?” the captain shouted against the wind. “Methinks not!”
Ransom hadn’t, but it was never too late to petition the Fountain for safety. He clutched the railing and watched the sea collide with the hull, sending a huge spray up onto the side deck.
“Feels like a winter storm!” Ransom shouted back.
“Aye, except the air is too warm for it! The Deep Fathoms must be angry. I see no other cause for it.”
Ransom looked into the distance, eastbound, and saw cliffs and shore. “Where are we? How far off Glosstyr?”
“These devilish winds are blowing from Glosstyr, I think!” said the captain. “Had to lower the sails, or they would have torn apart. We’re not making any progress at all.”
“How far, though?”
The captain shrugged. “At this rate, my lord, we’ll never get there.” He pointed to the south. “That way be Averanche. We’ve a better bet of getting there, but if this storm keeps up, we might shipwreck before we reach shore.”
Ransom frowned and shielded his eyes. The day was waning quickly. The thought of fighting the storm all night filled him with dread. “What other options do we have?”
The tiller yanked out of the captain’s hands, and it took the strength of both men to get it under control again. The captain’s eyes blazed with fear.
“The cliffs yonder are dangerous, but there’s a sanctuary over there. St. Penryn. Have ye been there?”
Ransom nodded slowly. It was a visit to St. Penryn that had sent him on his quest to the oasis. “Aye. Years ago.”
“They have a cove that might shield us from the worst of these winds. We could drop anchor in there, and you could take a horse to Glosstyr from the sanctuary. Seems less reckless than trying to sail against the wind.”
“I agree,” Ransom said. “Take us there.”
“I’ll try to coax her there, my lord, but the cog is going where she wants to go.”
“Good man,” Ransom said, clapping the captain on the shoulder. He decided against trying to walk back down to the lower deck after watching a sailor slip, slide to the edge of the ship, and catch himself before he tumbled over the deck. Much better to stay put, with a firm grip on the railing. The captain steered to the new course, and the waves began to hit them from behind.
Spray smacked Ransom in the face. His tunic was drenched already.
They fought the storm every bit of the way, but at dusk they finally reached the cove with the sanctuary of Our Lady at St. Penryn. Fires were burning from the upper cliffs as well as the lower ones, a welcoming beacon to the weary seamen.
“It was good of the deconeus to leave the lower lights burning!” shouted the captain. “We can see the cliffs much better!”
As soon as they entered the cove, the wind calmed considerably, and the fear inside Ransom’s chest began to ebb. The crew used oars to row with the current. Ransom looked up at the shining spires of the sanctuary and felt moved to offer a silent prayer of gratitude for having made it to safety. Two other ships were in the cove, both larger vessels with the markings of Genevar. It seemed they’d had the same idea.
After sunset, they reached the dock in calm waters and moored the cog in one of the berths. A sailor fixed the plank for Ransom and his knights to cross, and when they did, Ransom’s stomach finally settled from the seasickness that had plagued him. The Genevese ships had crews aboard, and he recognized the sound of their language as he heard them talking amongst themselves. He walked down the dock and led the way up the path to the sanctuary. He was met partway up by an acolyte bearing a covered lantern.
“Greetings, travelers!” said the acolyte. “Where do you knights hail from?”
“We were blown off course from Legault on the way to Glosstyr,” Ransom said. “Would you tell the deconeus that the Duke of Glosstyr is here?”
“You’re Lord Ransom?” asked the acolyte with interest.
“Yes. It’s been a long and wearying day.”
“Come with me. I’ll be your light and will tell the sexton to prepare rooms for you all.”
“Thank you.”
They trudged up the steps until they reached the upper cliffs, from which the massive torches illuminated the evening sky. A quiet hush fell over his heart upon seeing the familiar walls of St. Penryn. The last time he’d come here, it had been with a broken heart. He’d just been dismissed by Devon the Younger, and the deconeus had sent him on a journey that had ultimately brought him here, to this day. He dropped his hand to his sword pommel, feeling the comforting bulk of the scabbard he’d been given on that pilgrimage.