The castellan ordered the bridge to be lifted. We have stores of food and enough knights to hold the castle for a time, but he’s worried that we are susceptible to treachery from within. Someone might already be here who will deliver the castle into their hands. I don’t know how long Da will be away. The castellan thinks I should flee by ship after sunset. If I’m caught here, then I’ll be abducted and hidden away at some noble’s keep and tortured until I consent to marry. I don’t know what I should do. Da would want to keep me safe. But I want to protect his interests here in Legault.
Word just came. One of the knights patrolling the wall was shot by an arrow and killed. What should I do? I cannot abandon these men who have been so faithful to my father. I wish this castle stored some ancient magic of the Aos Sí.
—Claire de Murrow
Connaught Castle
（the siege begins）
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Confronting Shame
Night had fallen. Ransom gripped a spear with the banner of Devon the Younger fluttering from the tip as he approached the stone bridge, his heart afire with emotion. He kept his expression somber as he approached the guardians alone.
“Hoy there, Sir Ransom,” said one of them. “Have you come to fight or surrender? We’ve been watching your lord’s men slip away in the dark. How many of you are left?”
“Enough to fight still,” Ransom answered gruffly. “I’ve come to speak a truce with the duke.”
“How about you join us instead,” said the knight, grinning in a wolfish way.
Ransom stopped his destrier at the edge of the bridge. His senses were sharp and alert as he studied the knights of Glosstyr. Would they attempt to seize him and drag him to Lord Archer as a prisoner, a defeated knight? The flowing sound of water came to his ears, and the feeling of alertness sharpened. If they tried, he’d use the spear first and then grab his sword to fight them on the bridge, perhaps providing Devon with an opportunity to escape. As he stared at the ranks, he felt their weaknesses, their vulnerabilities to his skill.
But he heard something else. The subtle chime of a bell. It came from the woods on the other side of the bridge. He sensed the cloaked lady he had last encountered before the coronation. Turning his gaze, he looked into the woods, but it was too dark to see her. It didn’t matter. He knew she was there, and somehow he knew she could also sense his presence. Was she on foot or on a horse? Were her protectors with her?
His gut told him she was as much of a threat as Glosstyr’s troops, if not more.
“I would like Lord Archer’s word that I can come and go,” Ransom answered, shifting his attention to the antagonists in front of him. His instincts screamed a warning. She was so close to his own king as well as the duke. What was her aim? Her goal? He wanted to go back and warn Devon, but he dared not turn his back on these knights.
“You don’t trust us, Sir Ransom?”
“Not at the moment,” he replied. “I want his oath before coming over.”
The knight sighed and tugged on the reins, swinging his charger around and heading back over the bridge. The horseshoes made a sharp clicking sound against the stone. Ransom gazed at the woods again, feeling the presence of his opponent still. She hadn’t moved. Did he intimidate her as she did him?
In short order, the knight returned. “Lord Archer gives his word you may cross the bridge safely. Both in coming and going. He’d like to speak with you.” He cocked his head. “Is that enough, Sir Ransom? Or do you need it in a writ of safe conduct?”
“I trust his word,” Ransom said. His destrier started forward, and the knights backed away, giving him room to pass. As he crossed the bridge, he felt the presence of the lady to his left. Despite the sea of mounted warriors in front of him, he swiveled his neck and gazed in her direction. Now that he was awash in torchlight, he wondered if she could see his face, could tell he was staring at her. His muscles bunched with energy. How he wanted to charge into the woods and find her, but he knew such a move would rile up the men of Glosstyr. Still, an uneasy wariness festered inside him as he approached the line of men.
“Sir Ransom,” said a voice on his right, and he looked over sharply, recognizing the voice as Prince Benedict’s.
He saw Benedict astride a horse, and for a moment he wondered if one brother had betrayed the other, but no—the Duke of Vexin was only wearing a chain hauberk and tunic. He had no sword, and he rode a palfrey rather than a warhorse. The knights on either side of him wore Glosstyr’s badge, and one of them held the lead rope of Benedict’s horse. So he was a prisoner himself.