Warrior's Ransom (The First Argentines #2) - Jeff Wheeler Page 0,119

her flinch, saw the blush rise to her cheeks. “If you find yourself without a place, with wounds that will not heal, you know where you will find me.”

Ransom hoped he would never be so desperate.

Morning came, and Ransom awoke to the sound of the king’s racking cough. The curtains had been pulled shut, but light leaked through in a couple of spots. Ransom had fallen asleep in a chair, hand on his sword hilt, and his back ached from the awful posture. His wounds had all healed, though, and he felt rested.

He turned and went back to the bed where the king lay in his sweaty clothes, his hand grasping the leather saddlebag that held the hollow crown. His eyes were feverish with pain, and he gave Ransom a helpless look, as if pleading for relief that could not come. An ache tortured Ransom’s heart. It hurt to see his king suffer so.

“She came to me last night,” the king wheezed.

Ransom blinked in surprise. He hadn’t felt her presence, but then, he’d been exhausted and sleepless for several days.

“Alix?” he asked the king.

“Yes. The girl. The poisoner. She looked just like Emiloh. Nngghh! I thought . . . I thought it was a vision. So young . . . just as I remembered her.”

Ransom stepped forward. “Did she give you anything?”

“No, my boy. Nothing. She touched my brow. That is all. Then she looked at you asleep in the chair. She cares for you. I think even a serpent can love. But she is . . . she is just as deadly as one.” His voice dropped off as he panted, trying to endure the pain. “You chose . . . better . . . for yourself.”

He had, but he suspected that door had forever closed when he’d lanced Benedict’s horse out from under him.

Ransom approached the bed and gripped the king’s hand, unable to offer any other comfort. The king looked toward the curtains. “Is it morning, then?”

“Yes,” Ransom said. “Are you hungry?”

“I’ve eaten fire, and it burns me up on the inside,” said the king. “Some water, though, might douse the worst of the flames.”

After Ransom fetched a cup and gave it to the king, the door opened, and an Occitanian servant entered with a jovial look.

“Ah, he is awake!”

“I never slept,” grumbled the king after slurping some water.

“My king has arrived. And so has your son, Duke Benedict of Vexin. They have come to negotiate a peace, an end to the war. Shall I bring them in, my lord?”

“You shall not!” wheezed the king. “I will meet them in the great hall. Ransom, help me up.”

The man looked surprised by the claim. “Very well, Your Grace. I will inform them.”

When the fellow had departed, Ransom helped the king rise. The only clothes he had were the ones he had brought with him, and despite the heat, he demanded to wear the wolf-pelt cloak. The king stood by the bedstead, his legs trembling to support his weight.

“The crown,” he rasped.

Ransom opened the leather pouch and drew out the hollow crown. He felt its weight and heard the rippling of water in a distant stream. With a grieving heart, he helped put the crown on Devon’s head. As it rested there, the king’s eyes shut, his jaw muscles bulging. He reeked of sweat.

“Let me hold your arm,” he asked, clutching Ransom like a staff.

They walked slowly to the door and found two of Devon’s knights standing guard. One shuffling step at a time, they walked down the hall. The king’s eyes were fixed on the doorway leading to their destination. It took every measure of will and determination to make it, and his face shone with sweat by the time they arrived.

Within the great hall, there were tables spread for a feast. Estian stood there dressed in the finery of his rank. His armored knights were spread throughout the room, glaring at Ransom with vindictive fury. Benedict was there, looking weary but rested, his hair tamed, his beard long and imposing. When he saw his father’s weakened state, a troubled look came in his eyes. But he did not come forward to assist him.

Ransom felt that he and the king were spectacles for derision as they approached down the center of the hall.

Estian seemed unnerved by the king’s weakened state. “My lord, please . . . have a chair. I had no idea you were so ill.” Was he being honest? Alix’s offer nudged in the back of