Ransom winced. “Good Lord. You do have a bloodthirsty imagination.”
“Now he’s dangling by only one hand. With the rain falling, the wind whipping about the parapets. He has not only the weight of his body but the weight of his armor. It’s too much. He’s starting to lose his grip. It’s over, and both Ulric and the Shadow Knight know it.”
She set the bowl of pancake batter aside, offering him her sugary fingers to lick.
She went on with her tale. “ ‘Tell me,’ Ulric says, as he slips from three fingers to two. ‘Before you send me to my death, tell me who you are.’ At last, the Shadow Knight lifts the visor of his helmet, revealing an all-too-familiar face, and says”—she lowered her voice, giving it an ominous cast—“ ‘Ulric. I am your brother.’ ”
He let her fingertip slide from his mouth. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes,” she replied. “It’s truly not that much of a twist. The motif runs through most chivalric literature. Knights-errant are always having to face down a nemesis who is revealed to be their father, brother, or a long-lost son.”
She put a pat of butter in the heated pan and followed it with a generous spoonful of batter.
“But I thought Ulric’s brother died in the Crusades,” Ransom said.
“Ulric thought so, too. He thought Godric died on the battlefield, but he survived. It took him years to make his way back to England, and with every step, he dreamed of vengeance on the brother who had left him for dead.”
He shook his head. “Next you’ll tell me Cressida’s truly their sister.”
“Cressida, their sister? Lord, no. What on earth would make you think of such a thing?”
“It would be a good surprise,” he said. “You have to admit.”
She made a sound of disgust as she flipped the pancake. “They can’t be siblings. They’ve kissed.”
“Not very deeply.”
“It’s still a kiss. They are not brother and sister.” She laughed. “What a suggestion.”
She slid the finished pancake on a waiting plate. Just then, the door to the kitchen creaked open, and Izzy looked up just in time to see a familiar figure, capped with a shimmering knot of blond hair.
“Izzy, there you are.”
Abigail.
Izzy bit her lip, uncertain what the vicar’s daughter would think of her now. Ransom’s declarations yesterday had left little room for ambiguity, and here they were in rumpled half dress, making early-morning pancakes in the kitchen. The fact that they were lovers must be obvious.
And just in case it wasn’t apparent enough, Ransom slid his arm about her shoulders, drawing her close.
“Abigail,” she said. “Good morning. I was just—I mean, we were . . .”
“It’s all right, Izzy.” Abigail moved into the room, drawing Izzy aside. “I won’t tell a soul. In fact, I’m here to ask you for a favor. If anyone asks you, I stayed here at the castle last night.”
“Oh?” Understanding dawned. “Oh. Of course you did.”
“I most definitely did not spend the night at the Moranglian Army encampment,” Abigail went on in a low whisper, “allowing Mr. Butterfield some mildly unchivalrous liberties.” A wash of pink touched her cheeks.
Izzy smiled. “Of course you didn’t.”
“Thank you.”
“Not at all. What are friends for?”
Abigail gave her a squeezing hug and heaved a sigh of relief. “Now,” she said brightly, “what’s to be done about these solicitors? How do we prove that the duke’s not an incompetent lunatic? Surely we haven’t given up.”
Izzy looked to Ransom. “We haven’t given up. Have we?”
“No, we haven’t,” he said. “Let them come. No more charades. No more pretense. I will answer their questions, honestly. If, at the end of it, they mean to challenge my fitness as duke, I will see them in the Lord Chancellor’s court.”
“I like that plan,” she said. “Abigail, can we still count on your help?”
“Of course.”
“Duncan has resigned,” Ransom said, scratching his unshaven jaw. “But I think I can convince him to stay. As a friend. We’ll still need footmen.” He looked to Abigail. “You said the Moranglian Army is still camped nearby? Perhaps I can persuade them to come back.”
Izzy wasn’t sure that was a wise idea.
“Ransom, you were so hurtful to them yesterday. Lord knows what they’re thinking of me. Whatever you say to them . . . I suggest you consider beginning with a sincere apology. And concluding with the word ‘please.’ ”
He chewed a bite of his pancake and shrugged. “They’re reasonable men. I’m certain with a bit of conversation, we can reach an understanding.”
Evidently, an understanding wouldn’t be so easily reached.
Not two hours later, Ransom found himself in the Moranglian encampment. Surrounded, hooded, and held at sword point, with both hands bound behind his back.
And now they were taking him into the woods.
He tried to make himself heard through the clanking of armor and the sacking thrown over his head. “Good sirs, truly. I know yesterday I said hurtful things. But today, I’ve come in peace. I wish to join your ranks.”
A pointed object jabbed him in the kidneys. “One does not simply join the Knights of Moranglia. It’s not that easy. There’s a ceremony and an oath.”
“And a trial,” another said.
“Very well. I will submit to your trials. But really, is the hood necessary? I am already blind.”
He took another jab to the kidneys. “Kneel.”
He knelt. Someone removed his hood.
Ransom took a greedy gulp of fresh air. “So what do I do? What do I need to say?” He cleared his throat. “Anon I pledge mine fealty thither . . .”
They put the hood back over his head.
“Prithee,” he protested, “if thou wouldst waiteth a goddamned second—”
“Brother Wendell, he’s not taking this seriously,” one of the knights said. “Our order is a sacred trust. We’re here because we’re united by a higher purpose.”
Another chimed in. “If we admit him to our ranks, we must treat him as one of our own. As a brother. Do you think he’s going to treat us the same way?”
Ransom bowed his head and managed to shake his hood loose. Unburdened, he lifted his eyes and spoke to the faceless men surrounding him.