The palace occupied half of the largest island, and from his window in Devon’s room, Ransom could look down at a vast courtyard, servants’ quarters, and an intricate mazelike series of gardens, all contained by a massive wall that formed the shape of a ship’s prow. Riding land and stables occupied the farthest point. Down in the courtyard, he could see the small figures of people walking to and fro below, like so many ants scrabbling on rocks. Their room was in the upper section of one of the many turrets in the palace, offering a view that was breathtaking. The interior buildings were narrow but very tall with steeply slanted rooflines, gabled with windows for row after row of guest rooms. Ransom guessed that the palace held five times as many visitors as Kingfountain could. The five hundred knights who had accompanied them on the journey had been absorbed effortlessly into the space.
He heard the door handle turn and backed away from the window as Devon’s wife, Princess Noemie, walked in with two of her maids. Her dark chestnut hair was braided into thick knots on each side of her head, covered in white silk adorned with beads. Her crown, with the fleur-de-lis points, nested above the gauze, but there was another thin veil that settled over the tines of the crown and framed her lovely face. Her gown was the finest Occitania could produce, and the jewels on her wrist, fingers, and neck were worth more than anything he’d seen before.
Noemie had a proud look, that of a woman well aware of her beauty and rank, and she noticed Ransom as the only inhabitant of the room.
“Is that you, Sir Ransom?” she asked with a haughty voice, speaking in Occitanian instead of the language of her husband.
He bowed at the waist. “Yes, my lady.”
She walked up to him, her two maids trailing in her wake, and offered her hand for him to kiss her royal signet ring, which he did. Her hand was cold.
“You speak Occitanian well, for a foreigner,” she said. “Say something more to me.”
“What would your ladyship like to hear?”
“Praise me.” The command had been delivered in a bored, offhanded tone, but he felt a knot of concern twist in his stomach.
“My lady has minstrels and poets for such talk. I’m but a lowly knight.”
“Where is my husband?” she asked, looking at him impatiently.
“He and your brother have taken to the steam rooms below the castle,” Ransom said. “I’m expecting their return shortly.”
“You do not enjoy a steam bath yourself?”
“It’s an interesting custom that I am not acquainted with yet myself, my lady.” He wanted her to leave. Although they were not alone, he felt slightly uncomfortable in her presence. She turned and walked to the nearest stuffed couch, but instead of sitting, she touched some of the decorative pieces on a table next to it.
“You have been in Pree for three days, Sir Ransom, and have already bested our most accomplished knights,” she said in a stern manner. “Did you come here to mock us?” She gave him an accusing look.
She was incorrect. He’d bested five of their favorites, one of them a duke. He didn’t think it would be wise to correct her.
“We came to bring you to Kingfountain,” he replied. “I was challenged. I accepted. It is the way of knights.”
“If you wish to please me, Sir Ransom, you will lose your next challenge.” She stared at him as she said it—the look in her hazel eyes a different kind of challenge.
He listened for the sound of others coming, hopeful his master would arrive soon, but there was nothing other than the whisper of wind in the turret above them. In that moment, the sound seemed almost menacing.
“My lady, when I became a knight, I suffered the last blow I am required to endure without striking back. I have not sought to shame your people. If I am challenged, I will fight and do my best, as I’ve always done.”
“I am your queen,” she said archly. “Obey me.”
“You are my king’s wife,” he answered. “You have not been crowned yet at Kingfountain.”
Her lip curled in anger at his rebuff. “And if my husband ordered you to fail?”
“Who is it you do not wish me to defeat?”
Noise from the turret, the sound of marching steps, announced the arrival of Devon. The princess turned, hands clasped together, as the door opened to admit her brother and her husband. They wore comfortable royal tunics, both in the fashion of Occitania, and they sauntered in as if they were the best of friends.
The princess offered a kindly smile and inclined her head to both of them, her expression transfigured to one of gentle kindness. Ransom had seen behind her mask.