“I am Genevote,” she said. “My lady saw you leave the banquet. She wishes to speak with you.”
“Who is your lady?”
“I serve Lady Claire de Murrow.”
Surprise jolted him at her confession. He’d seen Claire of course—his gaze always found her when she was present—but he hadn’t thought he’d have the opportunity to speak with her privately. Even if they had met by accident, what could he have said, knowing as he did the king’s plans? “Where is she?”
“She was wise enough to stop and fetch a cloak before going out into the cold,” said Claire, stepping out of the shadowed archway, smiling at him. “Unlike some barmy knights.”
“My lady!” gasped Genevote.
“I grew impatient,” said Claire. “But thank you for finding him anyway. You may go.”
“As you wish, my lady,” said the maid. And she hurried back inside, leaving them alone together.
A familiar ache filled Ransom’s heart as he looked at Claire, her cloak’s cowl covering her lovely hair, the dark velvet fabric splotched with snowflakes.
“Do you want to go back inside?” he asked her.
“Are you trying to escape me already?” she replied with a laugh. Her accent sounded delicious in his ears.
“No, but it’s cold out here.”
“I’m not cold yet, Ransom. I was afraid you were going to bed early or something. You didn’t even look for me in the hall.”
He sighed. “I did notice you, but you were talking to others. I didn’t want to be rude.”
“I would much rather have been talking to you,” she said, looking up into his eyes and tilting her head slightly. She breathed out a little mist. “You don’t know the rules of the game, do you?”
His brow furrowed. “Game?”
“The game of courtiers, Ransom. You are one now, whether you believe it or not. You serve the Younger King. You have a position of influence. You’ll hear gossip. People will ask you for favors. Do you really not know what I’m talking about?”
He hung his head, feeling abashed as they walked back toward the edge of the dock. “I’ve not been here for very long.”
“Well, let me teach you the rules, then, since you are clearly a dolt in such matters. It is the fashion here to set your sights on a lady who has a higher rank than you do. Like Queen Emiloh, for example. Or your master’s wife, whenever she comes.”
“Why would I want to do that?” Ransom asked in confusion.
“It is part of the game of courtiers,” she answered. “You fight in her name. You prove your valor and all that rubbish and nonsense. You try to earn symbols of your beloved’s affection. And then, of course, you brag about your exploits to others in your mesnie. It sounds fantastic, doesn’t it?” Her tone of voice indicated she found it quite the opposite.
He let silence fall between them. Was she accusing him of setting his sights on someone else? Could she be jealous? They reached the spot of trampled snow where he had stood alone moments before. The river glided by peacefully but felt dangerous.
“Say something, Ransom,” she said, staring at the water.
“What do you want me to say?”
“If I told you what to say, then it wouldn’t come from your heart. It would come from mine.”
What did that mean? Now he felt utterly confused.
“Are you angry with me?” he asked her.
“Not yet. But you’re acting like a barmy eejit. Are you so completely ignorant of these things?”
“I think I am,” he said, feeling acutely uncomfortable. “When I was training to be a knight in Averanche, there were . . . some . . . who wanted to practice wooing. I practiced with swords and lances instead.”
“You mean Sir James?” she asked, looking at him directly.
He stopped himself before the accusation slipped out, but her eyebrows arched expectantly. She looked so beautiful in that moment it took his breath away.
“Say it, Ransom. Say the truth.”
“Yes,” Ransom said, turning away, feeling his cheeks growing hotter despite the cold.
“He’s shown a lot of attention to me,” she said, turning to face the river again. “It did seem a little . . . rehearsed. He can be quite charming.”
A horrible feeling grabbed at his stomach. He’d have been tempted to throw Sir James in the river had he been present.
“He is . . .” Ransom swallowed, trying to regain his composure and failing. “He’s a miscreant.”