—Claire de Murrow
Kingfountain Palace
（heartsick）
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Sanctuary of St. Penryn
Ransom rode his destrier against a stiff wind, leading the packhorse burdened with his supplies. He had a heavy heart, which grew even heavier as he glanced at his lance. No pennant flapped in the breeze, for he was once more a knight without a lord.
The coastal road was choked with scrub, a sign that the sanctuary had few visitors. Most of the trees grew at sharp angles from the consistent push of the sea winds.
Ransom had the trophies from his victories and enough silver livres to start his own mesnie should he want to. But he could not think of the future, he could not think beyond the shame of having been forsaken by his king, a man to whom he’d shown unshakable loyalty. After this journey was done, he had decided to return to the Heath and see his family. They, at least, deserved to know the truth about his infamy. He could never return to Kingfountain.
Memories tormented him. What could he have done differently to avoid this fate?
Sir Simon, at least, had been sorrowful at his departure. He didn’t believe the tales. Having one person not think ill of him was better than none, but Ransom knew his reputation was tarnished irrevocably. People would believe the worst, especially since the story was so lurid. That was the nature of life. He sighed, enduring the chafing wind. It was nothing compared to the emotions abrading his heart.
It sickened him to think of Claire learning the news. There was no way to get word to her, for she was one of the Elder King’s wards. Any correspondence to her would go through Devon the Elder first, although his lackeys read his correspondence before he did, so it likely wouldn’t even get that far. No, he would proclaim his innocence in person, face-to-face. How that would happen or when, he didn’t know, but he would not rest until it did.
Although Ransom tried not to dwell on his misfortune, it felt like his life was a never-ending series of setbacks and failures. He wanted to serve someone and to serve them faithfully. It was part of his character now, forged during his misadventures and trials. Yet he’d once again been wrenched away from his master without warning. This was more than a mere disappointment. Part of his soul had been wrenched away. He felt empty, as if his secret well of strength had been ruptured.
In the distance, he finally spied the sanctuary of St. Penryn. It jutted out of the rocky cliffs with all the luster of antiquity. It was not as grand as some of the other sanctuaries in the realm, but what it lacked in adornment it made up for in resilience. In truth, he’d never felt less worthy of a distinction from the Fountain, but he’d told Queen Emiloh he would heed her charge, and this, at least, was something he could do.
He reached the sanctuary late in the day, passing a few windswept villages on the route. As he drew near, he could hear the crash of the surf against the lower cliffs. The ocean seethed within its foamy depths, sounding as unsettled as he felt inside. He rode up to the grounds with a heavy heart and dismounted. There were no servants about. The sanctuary felt abandoned. He tied his destrier to a mounting post and then secured the packhorse as well. Gazing up at the ancient stone walls speckled with lichen and moss, he wondered whom he’d find inside.
After climbing the steps, he approached the iron door of the sanctuary and pulled at the handle, which opened with a loud groan of metal. The noise of the wind and waves was muffled as he ventured inside and shut the door behind him. A few torches sputtered, and the interior was chilly and uncomfortable. A statue of St. Penryn stood at the front of the space along with a dark pool of water. His armor rattled as he walked toward it, and his footfalls were heavy—if someone was here, they would surely notice him. Cobwebs clung to the corners of the vaulted windows, and when he reached the edge of the pool, he saw heaps of rusting coins. He stared at them, wondering how long they’d been spoiled by the waters. These looked even older than the ones he’d seen in the secluded pool at the other sanctuary.
“May I help you?”
The words, spoken in Occitanian, came out of nowhere, and Ransom turned in surprise, seeing the gray cassock of the deconeus, who wore light leather shoes and approached with soundless steps. He had no beard, which was surprising, although he had a mane of snow-white hair atop his head.
“I don’t know, Deconeus,” Ransom answered bleakly.
The deconeus gave him an affable smile. “I saw your two horses out front. Looks like all your worldly possessions came with you. Are you in need of money? I hope you didn’t come here to rob the sanctuary.”