“Don’t you dare walk away from me,” she said, her voice throbbing with emotion. “Please. If you are suffering even a small portion, admit it now.”
“I admit to nothing,” Ransom said. “You are mistaken if you suspect feelings that are not there.”
She looked around the assembly, and then she unclenched her hand and released his velvet tunic. “This is not the time or place, but we must talk, Ransom.” Her voice dropped low. “You must understand that Devon’s life is at stake.”
He stared at her in surprise. Was she speaking of the cloaked lady, or was this merely a new tactic to control him? He suspected the latter, although he took any threats against Devon seriously.
“Meet me tonight,” she whispered. “In the corridor by our rooms there is a pillar with the raven mark leading to an anteroom with a small fountain. I will meet you there at midnight.”
She turned, rubbing her hands together.
“I will not,” he said brusquely.
She looked over her shoulder. “Then you do not value the life of my husband. Midnight.”
Ransom began to walk fiercely toward the main door of the sanctuary. As he exited, the light from the sun was so blinding he had to shield his eyes with his hand. He nearly walked into a man.
“Ransom?”
It was Sir Robert Tregoss.
Ransom gave him a wary look. “I thought you were with the others?”
“I came with Princess Noemie,” he said. “Were you . . . meeting her?” His voice dripped with suspicion.
“No,” Ransom answered bluntly and marched off, taking the downward steps two at a time.
A seabird’s cry split the air overhead as he jogged down the steps. Many of the birds had gathered around the visitors, some pecking at fallen crumbs. The princess’s words had been burned inside his mind. They whispered in his ears as he returned to the market to look for a piece of jewelry for Claire. He found a necklace with four glass beads woven into a Gaultic knot made of silver. He bought it and didn’t even haggle over the price. He felt as if Noemie’s eyes were following him. Every time he caught a glimpse of dark braided hair or a silk veil, he wondered if it was her.
And that night, when he heard a bell toll the midnight hour, he still lay awake on his pallet, gripping the necklace in his hand, feeling the edges of the silver mark his skin. He’d passed the raven mark after returning to the castle. Heard the splashing of the water.
He knew Noemie would be waiting for him there. Moonlight came in through the silk curtains. It felt as bright as noon. A fever burned inside him. She claimed to know something, perhaps about the cloaked lady. The knowledge teased him, tantalized him, but he lay still. He would have to seek the information another way. To meet her in private would be beyond dangerous.
How long would she wait before she realized that he wasn’t coming?
The tournament held in Ploemeur had brought knights from nearly every kingdom. And Ransom went through them all like a farmer scything his field. The agitation he felt because of the impossible situation with Devon’s wife seemed to fill him with limitless energy. He felt the churn of the waterfall before each match began, and there was no diminishing of it after the contest ended. He unhorsed every opponent effortlessly. And one-on-one, he was peerless.
His last victim was Sir Terencourt, the champion of the Duchess of Brythonica. Ransom battered him down again and again, instinctively knowing the knight’s weaknesses. Each attack from the knight was suspected, anticipated, and blocked. He went down for the third time, barking in pain and clutching his armored leg.
Again Ransom stood over him with his bastard sword, the thrum of energy still at its peak. “Yield.”
The knight leaned forward, panting, and then clambered back to his feet. He looked at Ransom with fatigued eyes. There was a dribble of blood on his forehead.
“I . . . will . . . not,” the knight rasped.
Ransom stepped back, feeling it was almost a mockery to fight a man who was clearly winded and suffering the humiliation of pending defeat. He glanced at the crowd, saw the eager looks for this last bout to be over.
The thought came that the knight was only pretending to be winded, that he would leap and attack with sudden fury and vengeance.
Ransom turned his head just in time, the warning coming to his aid.
The knight launched his attack at that very moment, sword arm raised high to bring a sweeping blow down on Ransom’s helmet. The ruse would have worked had Ransom not sensed the attack.
He felt a surge of energy, an emotion like rage, and spun around, swinging his own weapon. His sword cut off Sir Terencourt’s arm as it was descending in a downstroke. The knight, his eyes bright with shock, fell to his knees. The limb clashed to the ground, still gripping the sword.