Ransom’s chest constricted. Sir Robert stood right next to Devon, arms folded imperiously, his eyes full of hatred. Of victory. Ransom’s heart sank.
“You summoned me, my lord,” Ransom said, his voice sounding thick.
Devon glared at him. His eyes were like daggers. “Yes. I did.”
Ransom took in James’s smugness. Why was he even there? Why was he always there when Ransom was humiliated?
His gaze shifted to the other knights of the mesnie. Sir Talbot looked disappointed, and Sir Alain couldn’t even meet Ransom’s eyes—he just kept looking at the floor as if ashamed for him. No servants were present. But Noemie’s absence seemed even more conspicuous now.
The feelings thrashing around inside Ransom’s stomach were dark and savage. The silence grew uncomfortable. Then devastating.
“I am here, my lord,” Ransom said simply.
Devon took a step forward, his eyes flashing with rage, and Ransom wondered if his friend, his king, would strike him. No man had that right. Would he let him?
“Take your winnings,” Devon said. “Enjoy them. You will not be returning with us to Kingfountain.”
It felt like a hammer stroke ringing on an anvil. His heart ached in his chest.
“My lord?” Ransom asked in confusion.
“Was I not clear, Sir Marshall Barton? You will not be returning with us. I release you from my service. You are no longer a member of my mesnie. You have all the time in the world now to visit any sanctuary you would like to appease your guilt!” Devon’s eyes blazed with fury, with betrayal. “May the Fountain wash your stain. Get out of my sight.”
The pain wrenching Ransom’s heart was worse than anything he’d ever felt before. He was being dismissed, dishonorably, for something he’d never done. Oh, the look on Robert’s face said it all. So did James’s sneer—he suspected it was no accident the man was here to witness his downfall.
The injustice of it stung worst of all. He could only imagine what lies Noemie and Sir Robert had spewed about him. And now he would have to leave Devon in their clutches—at the mercy of whatever the Occitanians had planned for him.
Devon had a trusting heart but sometimes lacked discernment. He’d heed their advice, to his detriment.
A small voice in the back of his head also wondered what Claire would think of him.
What would she believe?
He wanted to speak, to defend himself, but he did not. He would not accuse the princess in front of these men. His ears burned hot, and he felt on the verge of violently expelling everything he’d eaten that evening.
“Why are you still standing there?” Devon asked with withering contempt.
“You are in danger, my lord,” he forced out, his tone urgent. “Please hear me out.”
“I don’t want to hear another word from your lips. Get out.”
Ransom bowed his head to the Younger King and then turned and walked out of the tent and into the night. Tears threatened his eyes, but he willed them back. As he walked, a half-drunken noble fell in alongside him.
“I wish you’d never been born,” the Brythonican said, burping, laughing. He clapped Ransom on the back, then staggered off drunkenly.
The words stung. He’d already felt guilty about the manner of his victory against the Brythonican champion—about his violence—and the man’s statement struck him down to his core.
You’re not worthy. Even serving Devon loyally could not make it so.
Suddenly he felt like that little boy again, standing on a barrel with a hangman’s noose dangling before him. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself turn and look back at King Gervase.
The grinning king nodded to him, gesturing for him to put his head through the noose.
It can’t be true. Has everything I’ve hoped for been a lie? The Younger King returned. Everyone is saying that Ransom is in disgrace for trying to seduce Devon’s wife. The rumors are so ugly. They say that his heart turned proud after he won his second championship. That his fame and success sent him the way of the heroes of legend. The stories have left me with an aching heart. Part of me believes it is true, and part of me questions whether they’ve all gotten it wrong. Has some bout of madness overtaken the realm?
I don’t know what to think. All I know is it hurts to breathe. It hurts to think. It hurts to grieve. Some stains cannot be washed clean. Oh, Ransom. Were you acting the maggot in Brythonica? Are you just like other men? I cannot hold Noemie entirely blameless either. Perhaps she bears a degree of fault for this transgression. I can usually find some comfort in tears. But not this time. This time they burn my eyes.