“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.
“Listen,” he said. “I know. I’m not your friend. I’m the bastard who thrashed you and took your pocket money at school. But right now, I’m on the ground. In the woods. Kneeling in something highly unfortunate, on the day after my valet quit his post. I am serious about this. I am seriously apologetic for what I said. And I seriously need your help.”
That was the first time Ransom could recall ever saying those words: I need your help. And look, he hadn’t even collapsed of humiliation.