Ransom was no longer a penniless knight. His earnings from the competitions had more than paid for the suit of Scarbrow armor that Anders had made for him. And he had his own destrier now, more valuable than a rouncy. He hadn’t paid for it either. He’d won it from a noble from the Vexin, who’d lost to Ransom in a tournament. Ransom had his own tent, could afford the labor of a page, who also worked with another knight, and he was considered by many as a possible contender for winning one of the three rewards at the tournament. At least enough for people to wager on him with long odds.
The heat of the day had ended, and dusk began to fall. Fire pits made of iron were being lit to ward off the coming chill as well as to provide light. The smell of roasting meat and delicious Occitanian treats wafted in the air, stirring hunger in his nervous stomach. Ladies mingled with the knights, and the bright feminine laughter was a contrast to the times before, when the camp had mostly been occupied by warriors. The Black Prince allowed no immorality in Chessy or within the streets of Pree. Women who came to ply another trade were dismissed as quickly as knights who could not follow the rules.
“Sir Ransom!” called the voice of Tanner, his young page.
He turned, seeing the lad swerving through the crowd to catch up with him. The boy was only twelve, but he seemed younger and smaller than Ransom remembered being at that age.
“What is it?” Ransom asked as the boy caught up with him.
“Lord Kinghorn of Averanche has arrived! He came with Constable Rakestraw.”
“Brilliant,” Ransom replied. “I wonder if they sent anyone to secure space for them. People are starting to encamp on the road now.”
“All the inns leading up to Pree are full,” Tanner said. “The innkeepers are overflowing with silver livres right now.”
“That they are. Find out where they’re staying. I’d like to know.”
“Of course! I’ll do my best.”
“Good lad,” Ransom said, tousling the boy’s hair. He watched the boy run off, dodging and weaving through the crowd again. When he turned around to continue his journey, he nearly collided with a pretty nobleman’s daughter, who looked at him with a devilish smile.
“Pardon, my lady,” Ransom said, bowing slightly and stepping out of her way.
Her smile grew brighter. She didn’t look offended in the least, nor did she seek to pass. A knight stood next to her, an escort no doubt, who screwed up his face and gave Ransom a wary look.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” she said, and the sound of her voice gave her away. It was a Gaultic accent, one he hadn’t heard in seven years.
In the dusk, he’d assumed her hair was brown, but now that he looked closer, the glow of the firelight showed its special tint.
Ransom gaped at her. It was Claire.
“I heard someone cry out your name!” she said. “And here you are!” She wore an elegantly embroidered cape over a white muslin gown with a belted girdle, arm bands, and a thin braided rope beneath her bosom. The sleeves were tight down to her wrists, with more fabric gathered higher up on her arms, slit wide so it trailed like a train. The cape was red and featured intricate needlework. He took all of her in, blinking quickly, before realizing this wasn’t the little girl who had teased him playfully at Kingfountain when they were children. She had grown up.
She was examining him too, looking at his face, at the cloth tabard he wore over his chain hauberk. At the sword and dagger strapped to his hip.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” he stammered, realizing he was gawking.
“Of course it is, you fool eejit,” she said, laughing. “Look at you! I’m not sure I would have recognized you if the lad hadn’t called you by name. Is this . . . is this a beard?” She lifted her hand as if she’d touch his face, before dropping it suddenly.
Ransom hadn’t been to the barber yet, but had planned to, knowing the Occitanians judged those from Ceredigion harshly because of their beards, considering them barbaric and unkempt.
“I was going to see the barber soon,” Ransom said, feeling self-conscious.
“Don’t. I like it,” she said. “Where have you been all these years?”
“I’ve been . . . well . . . what do you mean?”
She sighed with exasperation. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“In the tournament camp?” he said. “How did you know I was—”
“Stop. You’re not understanding me. Where have you been since you left Averanche? No one knew where you’d gone. Not even your family at the Heath. You look so sunburnt and sturdy now.”