“Yes, on your feet,” said the king. “I can’t bear such tedious formalities behind closed doors. I may yawn to death. He’s here, and we’ve shooed away Lord Archer to speak with him. Best he knows why and soon.”
“We will finish talking about Lord Archer later,” said the queen. “He has a right to be concerned.”
“I don’t give a fig about his right to be concerned,” said the king in a dismissive manner. “He has a duty to be loyal. If it were not for me, he never would have won Legault, and his daughter wouldn’t have the right to choose her husband anyway. I gave it to him, and so he owes me his allegiance. It’s really quite simple; I don’t see why he’s so upset about it.”
Ransom’s stomach shriveled. So the rumors were true—they intended to pressure Claire into marrying their youngest son.
“It’s still too soon,” the queen said. “Jon-Landon is but a boy.”
“Is there not the same gap in age between my lady and myself?” Devon said. “I was no more than Sir Ransom’s age, I declare, when I wooed you for myself.”
“You make it sound so romantic,” said the queen with flaring nostrils.
The king set his goblet down, folded his arms, and approached Ransom. “What? Would it have been more romantic if I’d laid siege to Auxaunce? If I’d starved your populace into surrender? You are so bloodthirsty, my lady.” He gave her a knowing smile.
The queen arched her brow. “The business at hand, my lord?”
“Ah, yes. Sir Ransom.” He stroked his beard, appraising Ransom like he would a destrier. “You are young, handsome, and well trained, which I’ve been assured of by Lord Kinghorn himself. A capable man. Has an eye for these things. You are not prone to outbursts, which we’ve just proven. Circumspect, I like that.”
“Husband . . . there are pressing matters still to attend to. Just tell him what you intend.”
“I’m getting to it, I’m getting to it,” he said with a dismissive gesture. Ransom felt his insides squirm, but he maintained a calm expression. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but the king and queen had very different personalities. He seemed more hot-headed, she cool and careful. “You’re here to be of service, lad, are you not?”
“Y-yes, my lord,” Ransom stammered.
“You do feel a sort of obligation, do you not? Five thousand livres is quite a ransom . . . Ransom.” The king grinned.
“It is.”
“Are you Fountain-blessed?”
“I don’t know, my lord,” Ransom answered.
“Of course you aren’t,” the king snapped. “That’s a myth. It’s . . . it’s a fable from the ages.” He snapped his fingers. “There are no Wizrs anymore. No magic rings. But I care not about that. DeVaux believed you were. That is why he insisted on getting his full recompense. If people continue to believe that you are, then you will be valuable to me, worth more than five thousand livres.” He glanced at his wife. “Stop glaring at me, Emiloh! On with it, then. You were summoned to Kingfountain, Sir Ransom, to serve the King of Ceredigion. To be part of the king’s mesnie. From what Bryon has told me, you’re quite lethal with a blade. You fought well in the Brugian campaign, you’ve done well at Chessy, and most importantly, you saved me from paying an even heftier ransom for my dear wife. I owe you at least forty-five thousand livres for that!”
Ransom blinked in surprise. “I’m to serve you, my lord?”
“Not at all!” he chortled. “I said the King of Ceredigion. You will serve our eldest son. Your duty is to keep that feckless young man alive!”
Why does loyalty always demand such a heavy tax? I am furious right now and have already shattered one of the palace mirrors. I was aiming for the wall. King Devon, may the Fountain drown him, has demanded of Da that I marry his youngest son, that sniveling little prince. His eldest brothers have been given kingdoms and duchies, so why not find something else for the royal brat? Of course, the king stooped to remind Da of the help he offered us in reclaiming Legault, my hereditary right. Yet does not that very hereditary right grant me, the daughter of a queen, the right he seeks to wrest from me? Why irk a man and his daughter so? Why try to strangle their consciences? Even according to the precepts of Virtus, which I despise, a lady is to be wooed by a knight who proves his worth through deeds of valor. The prince is still pinching his own pimples. Why did we come to court? Now I just desire to go back to Legault. This court is poisonous. I want nothing of it.