His son looked as if he would argue but reined in his temper and, after a brief struggle, maintained his equanimity too. “Of course. I will respect your wishes, Father.”
The king lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “My son acquiesces? A true miracle worthy of the Lady.”
But again, Devon didn’t rise to the bait. “There is another tournament, Father. One that will be held in the duchy of Brythonica. Midsummer’s Eve, I think. I should like your permission to attend that one as well.”
The king screwed up his face and tilted his head. “Is that why you’re being so agreeable?”
“No! Not at all. If you say no, then I will stay here and . . . hawk.” He stared at his father with pleading eyes, with a look that barely concealed his desperation. It was clear from his tone that he thought the art of falconry beneath his contempt.
A look of wariness was on the king’s face. “Brythonica, you say? A chance to see your brother Goff as well?”
“Yes . . . yes, of course!” said Devon. It was obvious he hadn’t even considered that.
The king sighed. “Very well. I’ll reward your forced humility with magnanimity. You have my permission to go, on the same terms as before. Lord Kinghorn sends his knights to escort you there and back.”
“Thank you, Father!” Devon burst out excitedly.
“I wasn’t finished. I’ll inform Lord Carlson to provide ample funds. Your mesnie are champions now, and I want them to look the part. Fresh royal tunics, flourishes for the horses, that sort of thing. A new banner with the Silver Rose. He’ll entrust Sir Simon with a thousand livres to spend liberally. Flaunt it, my son.” He closed his hand into a fist. “Show them the power you represent.”
The younger’s eyes widened with eagerness. He was so grateful for the news that he didn’t question his father’s motives, but Ransom saw something beyond the words. The Elder King was turning their victory at Chessy into a political statement. But all Devon could see was the possibility of jingling coins and fame.
“You are . . . most generous, Father,” said Devon, his exuberance spilling out. “Thank you. Thank you!”
“I don’t usually squander my coins, lad. There is a purpose behind everything I do. Don’t squander my goodwill.”
“I won’t. I promise you! Thank you again!”
The king gestured for them to leave and turned to approach Lord Kinghorn, who sat in one of the councilors’ seats adjacent to the throne, along with the other members of the king’s council.
Devon turned to leave, grinning eagerly at Robert and Simon before clapping them both on the back. Ransom stayed where he stood, hoping he’d have a moment to petition the king himself while his courage was high.
Lord Kinghorn noticed Ransom still standing there. He must have mentioned it in a low voice because the king abruptly turned around and gave him a quizzical look.
“What is it, young man?” asked the king. A look of annoyance flashed across his face. “Speak.”
Ransom bristled at being called young man. He was almost twenty-three, but he didn’t want to be peevish. “I wondered if I could have a word with you, my lord?”
“A word only? Very well. I grant you one.”
Ransom wasn’t sure if he was teasing or not, but he approached the king, who met him halfway.
“What is it, Sir Ransom?”
“Claire.”
The king blinked. “You took me at my word, didn’t you? One word. Well, I’m afraid I must ask you to elaborate on your intentions.” Wariness crept over his expression. “If you’re asking to marry one of the wealthiest heiresses in the kingdom, I’ll save you the trouble with a definitive and unyielding answer of no.”
“No, my lord, I wouldn’t presume—”
“You would, actually. But go on. What do you want with her? I’m very busy. Speak plainly.”
“I should like to see her. But I understand that no one may visit . . . the tower . . . without your express permission.”
The king stroked his beard and then scratched his neck. His look of annoyance increased. “To what purpose?”
“We were childhood friends, my lord. We both grew up here at the palace. I should . . . I should . . .”
“Don’t stammer! Say it.”
“I should like to see her again. That is all. Her father died. I wish to give her my condolences.”
The king threw up his hands. “I would be an ungrateful king indeed if I denied such a meek request. To the tower you may go. The password for the guards is ‘perfidia.’ An hour only. Such can be spared for the victor of Chessy.” He ended it with a laugh, showing he didn’t think highly of the accomplishment.