Ransom and Sir William rode side by side, with a packhorse tethered behind them, carrying the knight’s armor, two lances, and the rest of his baggage. The roads were still considered dangerous, but they’d passed about a half-dozen soldiers wearing King Devon’s badge, the Silver Rose from House Argentine, riding back to Kingfountain. Sir William had commented that the new king had started sending patrols through the realm. A good sign that peace might be established in some of the lawless parts of the kingdom.
After a full day’s ride, kept at a leisurely pace because of the packhorse, they arrived at a fork in the road.
“Your father’s castle is yonder,” said Sir William. “It’s been a few years, but I remember all the yellow broom growing in this area. That’s why this place is called the Heath.”
Ransom’s nerves had been increasing along the journey. He wished there were a way he could have stayed at Kingfountain. His parents had never asked for him back, and he wasn’t even sure what they would say when they saw him. Still, he felt he owed his mother a visit, and the desire to see her pulled at him. Besides, he knew thirty livres would not last long in Occitania, and he did not wish to be a burden on Sir William.
“Do you want to spend the night?” Ransom asked. “It will be dark soon.”
Sir William pursed his lips. “Sorry, lad. I wouldn’t want to abuse the right of hospitality. I fought against your father during the war.” He shook his head. “I’d rather sleep in a meadow. But there’s a village farther on, closer to Westmarch. I’ll try my luck there and avoid an . . . awkward confrontation.”
Ransom expected his parents would honor the right of hospitality, but he wasn’t sure enough to press the matter further.
“Well, Sir William. Good luck on your travels. I hope you reach Occitania safely.”
“I’m wearing my hauberk under the tunic just in case,” he said with a grin. “Your older brother, what was his name?”
“Marcus,” Ransom said.
“Your father’s name is John? That’s a common name in Ceredigion.”
Ransom nodded. “Aye.”
“Well, he sired you, so there must be some good in him.” He winked at Ransom. “You’re a good lad. I’m glad to have known you. If I had any prospects, I’d take you on as my squire right now.”
Ransom felt a keen ache in his breast. “I’d still go with you.”
Sir William sighed. “I know you would, lad. And I’m sorely tempted. But I don’t have the money to start a mesnie of my own. I have no lands, no income. I have to prove myself all over again to another lord. But I promise you this—if I come across a situation that requires a strapping youth willing to work hard for very little money, I’ll be sure to mention your name.”
Ransom grinned at the banter. “I’d come.”
“Your prospects are brighter than you think. Maybe I’ll come looking for work from you in a few years. Go to your father. And give your mother a kiss, even if it embarrasses you. Do right by her, and she’ll do right by you.”
“Thank you. I will.”
Sir William straightened the fingers on his right hand, cocking his thumb, and then tapped the thumb against his left breast twice, an informal salute between two knights, one they did as they passed each other on the road. It was a sign of respect, and although Ransom was much younger and didn’t deserve the tribute, he felt the honor of it catch fire in his chest. He mimicked the gesture, and Sir William nodded to him and continued down the road.
Ransom watched him for a moment longer, wishing he could follow. Sir William was a true knight and more of a brother to Ransom than Marcus had ever been. The brothers had never been playmates—Marcus was four years older, and he’d always gone off with Father on his duties as head of the estate.
“On, Gemmell,” Ransom said, shifting in the saddle.
The steed obeyed and took the fork in the road. The road cut through a light grouping of yew trees, and Ransom kept his eye on the thick branches, hoping no thieves lurked there waiting to rob him. But there was nothing beyond a few wagons and small encampments. After clearing the rise, a meadow of yellow broom opened before him, along with a view of the castle his father was still building. The years had added to its height, but there were still some timbers framed along the walls along with ropes and winches for hauling stones to the higher towers. It seemed a small village had been built up around the base of the keep, with two dozen or so wattle-and-daub houses made of timber and mud. Living in the shadow of a castle provided protection, but these seemed to be skilled workers, not farmers. A few pens with sheep and goats could be seen, and the road was riddled with ruts and puddles.