Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(5)

Ransom’s heart ached with loss. The king had been a true father to him. Tears stung Ransom’s eyes, but he willed them back and blinked quickly. He wouldn’t lose his composure, not in a crowd. Not when she might see him.

Ransom blinked quickly and shifted his gaze to where Claire stood side by side with her father. The man was a giant. He was huge, thick, and the sword belted over his chain tunic was nearly even with Ransom’s chin. She looked like a tiny thing in her father’s shadow, but she was a little taller than Ransom, and he was taller than most of the boys his age at the palace. He was taller than any of the new king’s sons, who all stood dutifully by Devon and his wife, Emiloh, although the youngest was fidgeting. They were younger than him.

His gaze went back to Claire’s hair, which looked deceptively brown in her father’s shadow. Her hair had always fascinated him. He’d heard that many in Legault had hair the color of pumpkins, but Claire’s wasn’t like that. Its color seemed to change throughout the day, the brighter light revealing shades of crimson. She turned her head, as if she’d heard his thought, and caught him looking at her. He quickly looked away, but not fast enough because he caught that teasing smile again.

The wind died down, and the deconeus’s voice reached Ransom’s burning ears.

“May his soul find solace and rest in the depths of the Deep Fathoms. And may the stains of blood from this terrible war be washed away, giving us peace in our noble realm at last. The Lady hear us.”

Everyone in the crowd murmured in agreement. “The Lady hear us.”

His stomach lurched as the knights of King Gervase’s mesnie, wearing their gleaming armor, knelt and lifted the poles arranged horizontally beneath the canoe. He glanced at Sir Will Chappell, who was tall and strong and had an expression of determination. Ransom wished he’d been allowed to be part of the funeral guard. But he wasn’t even a squire yet, and that duty belonged to knights.

The strong men hoisted the canoe and marched slowly, solemnly, to the edge of the dock. The deconeus of the sanctuary of Our Lady turned around to face it, a black cloak fringed with silver fur covering his pale gray robes. The new king and queen wore similar mourning garments.

Ransom breathed in through his nose, watching as his king was carried to the edge. The roar of the falls was muted today, as if the waters themselves were paying reverence to the man’s remains. The knights stood at the edge, sunlight flashing off their metal armor. His heart yearned to be one of them, to join a mesnie and take part in battles, fighting for the honor of a great lord. But whom would he serve? His hopes for the future had shriveled right along with Gervase. After his son’s death, Gervase had finally allowed his depression to overcome his health. Over a few months, Ransom had watched him burn out, a candle snuffed by the darkness inside and around him.

The knights at the back of the canoe lifted their poles higher, while the knights near the head lowered theirs, creating a ramp. Ransom flinched as he heard the canoe scrape against the poles, then splash noisily into the churning river. Everyone strained to see it, which blocked Ransom’s view. A child closer to the front pointed. That was considered rude at such a solemn event, but it was one of the new king’s sons. His mother, Emiloh, put his arm down and gave him a quiet but gentle reprimand. Ransom looked away. He could not bear to look at that family for all the resentment it stirred. Why couldn’t Devon Argentine have been content being the Duke of Westmarch and Count of Averanche? Why had he been so greedy?

Many nobles had fled to the camp of Duke Devon before it was over. Every week had brought news of another defection. Ransom had watched the toll it had taken on the king’s health.

Ransom knew when the canoe had gone over the falls because of the collective gasp that could be heard from downriver. It came from the throats of the thousands who had gathered on the bridges and on the island sanctuary to view the spectacle. The sanctuary of Our Lady had been built centuries ago on an island that split the falls of the river straddled by the ancient town of Kingfountain. Ransom was one of the lucky ones who’d attended the funeral at the palace of Kingfountain, because he’d lived there for years.

But not any longer. The new king had come, along with his supporters and his large brood of children, and the butler had told Ransom there was no longer room for him. He would need to leave Kingfountain after the funeral. It was probably the worst day of his life, he decided. Claire was going away as well, to Legault, something she’d talked about nonstop for days.

The crowd of nobles milling around the dock began to disperse now that the ceremony had ended, but Ransom didn’t feel like leaving yet. Some people patted his shoulder in sympathy as they walked by. Everyone knew that he’d been like a son to King Gervase.

As more people left, he started walking out to the dock. The dull roar of the falls was a constant murmur. He’d miss that when he returned to the Heath.

What was he going to say to his father? To his mother? The tangled feelings in his chest were too much for him to unknot. Anger, resentment, sorrow, loss. Grief. That was the biggest one, all thick and dark and brooding in his chest. As he neared the edge, he saw Sir William standing there, arms folded, gazing down at the river.

The knight had taken an interest in him since that fateful day by the trebuchet. When Sir William glanced up and noticed him, a sad smile flickered on his mouth.

“Come to pay your respects, lad?”

“Aye, Sir William.” Ransom stood by him, gazing at the rush of waters. It was too beautiful a day for a funeral. Where were the rain and thunderheads that had lowered over Kingfountain for what seemed like months? It was almost as if the skies had reflected the sadness of King Gervase. Were they now reflecting Devon Argentine’s feelings? He’d won in the end.