There, visible through the archway, were approximately a score of mounted riders, followed by three coaches drawn by teams. The armored riders dismounted in unison, and the carriage doors opened, spilling forth about a dozen young ladies in medieval dress. Banners waved briskly in the morning breeze. Izzy couldn’t make out the words emblazoned on them, but she didn’t need to. She knew what they said.
Doubt not.
“Who are these people?” Ransom asked, as the riders and ladies walked through the archway and into the courtyard. “What the hell do they want?”
“I told you, my father’s more enthusiastic readers call themselves Moranglians. They have clubs and circular letters to share their news. And the particularly dedicated Moranglians . . . well, some of them take it a bit further. They enjoy dressing as the characters, acting out battles and scenes. They’re very well organized. There’s an oath they take, and badges.”
“What’s that god-awful clanking I hear?”
“It’s . . .” She sighed. “It’s armor.”
She risked a glance at the duke’s face.
As expected, he looked revolted. “Armor?”
“I know it makes no sense to you.” She reached for her embroidered shawl. “You don’t have to approve of it. Just don’t disparage them.”
Wrapping her shawl about her shoulders, Izzy leaned out the window and waved. “Good people of Moranglia!”
All the young men and women assembled in the courtyard turned and looked up at her. The knights, with their makeshift armor, fell into a formation.
One stepped forward and performed a deep genuflection. “My lady. I am Sir Wendell Butterfield, first knight of the West Yorkshire Riding Knights of Moranglia, also representing our sisters, the local chapter of Cressida’s Handmaidens.”
“You and your party have traveled far, Sir Wendell.”
“We have. Do I have the honor of addressing Miss Izzy Goodnight?”
“Yes, it’s I,” she called down, smiling. “Miss Izzy Goodnight. Your knights and ladies are most welcome here.”
While the crowd below cheered, Ransom made a gagging noise. “There you are with that treacly voice again.”
“Stop,” she chided, speaking out of the corner of her mouth. “I can’t spoil it for them. They mean well.”
“How do they mean well, showing up unannounced this early in the morning? What on earth can they want of you?”
“Just a visit, most likely. Perhaps a quick tour of the castle. But I won’t know for certain until I go ask, will I?”
She called down to Sir Wendell. “Good Sir Wendell, please be at ease. I’ll come thither anon.”
He reached for her. “Wait. You can’t let all those fancy-dress fools tromp through my castle. Thithering and anon-ing. I’m not having it, Goodnight.”
“It’s my castle. And I’m not inviting them for a house party, but I will show a modicum of hospitality toward my guests.”
“These are not guests. They’re uninvited intruders. Don’t ask them anything. Tell them to go.” He gestured in the direction of the dwindling, yet still-massive, heap of correspondence. “If you mean to claim this as your castle, there’s a great deal of work to be done.”
“Work will have to wait.” She shrugged away from him, moving toward the front entrance. “They’ve come all this distance. I can’t turn them away.”
“Certainly you can. It’s bad enough that they pester you with letters and questions. Draw a line, Goodnight. Go out there and tell them you’re a grown woman who can sling about the word ‘cock’ with the ease of a courtesan, and you don’t appreciate unannounced visits. Then invite them to sod off, the bunch of clanking idiots. If you won’t, I’ll do it.”
“No.” Panicked, Izzy put a hand to his chest, stopping him in his paces. “Your Grace, please. I won’t invite them inside the castle if you don’t like. I’ll send them away as quickly as I can. Just promise me you’ll stay upstairs, out of sight. Let me deal with this. Trust me when I tell you, you don’t want these people to see your face.”
Ransom clenched his jaw.
So. His wrecked face wasn’t as disgusting as he’d been thinking all these months.
It was worse.
Apparently, he was such a horrifying monster, he needed to be locked away in the tower, lest he frighten the tenderhearted fools currently filling his courtyard.
Well. At least now he knew.
And today, his terrifying looks would be put to some use. He was going to clear out these intruders himself.
He pushed past her and exited the great hall, heading for the exterior stairs.
“Wait. Ransom, please.”
He ignored her, striding forward to stand on the topmost step. The crowd hushed at once. He heard a few gasps, and not all of them feminine, either.
Good.
“This is my castle.” His voice rang from the stones. “Rouse yourselves and begone.”
He swept his vision over the assembled inanity. The young ladies at the edges were a colorful assortment of blurs. Their gowns trailed behind them on the ground. The “knights” were a clash of metallic glints and silver flares.
Any moment now, they’d all run away. Exit through the archway like a rainbow pouring through a sieve. Any moment now.
Moments later, he was still waiting. They didn’t run away.
At last, the one called Sir Wendell found his voice. “All knights, salute!”
A bang echoed through the courtyard, as if they’d all thumped their fists against their armored chests in unison.
“All knights, kneel.”
With a wince-inducing clanking, the knights went down on one knee.
“Our liege. We are honored.”
What . . . the . . . devil.
They were supposed to run away screaming. Instead, they were kneeling and saluting. Ransom couldn’t understand it. Just what was going on here?
Miss Goodnight joined him, but she didn’t offer any explanation. “Sir Wendell, how can we be of help this morn?”
“We are on our way to the annual North Regional tournament, Miss Goodnight. Someone informed us of your presence in the neighborhood, and we couldn’t resist stopping by. We had . . . no idea.”
No idea of what, Ransom wondered. No idea of decorum? No idea of common sense?
“We’ll be on our way,” Sir Wendell promised. “But might we trouble you for so long as it takes to rest and water our horses?”