The first knight spoke again. “Don’t allow it, brother. He’s not a true Moranglian.”
“But I am now,” Ransom insisted. “And Sir Wendell should know it. He was there at the vicarage for dinner when we read through the first part.”
“Then prove your worth,” the second knight said. “In installment seventeen, what three ingredients did Ulric fetch for the Witch of Graymere’s potion?”
Bloody hell. That was very specific. Ransom searched his memories of the previous night. He’d been paying attention to the story—he’d been lost in it, truly—but he hadn’t taken sodding notes. “Toe of troll, hair of newt, and . . . and unicorn piss? Damn it, I don’t know.”
“Do you see?” the knight said. “He’s not sincere. I bet he doesn’t even know the Doubt Nots.”
“Wait,” Ransom said, perking up. “Those, I know.”
He remembered this part. It was a good part, with Ulric taking his leave of Cressida before departing on his quest to slay the Beast of Cumbernoth. He’d made quite a speech.
“Doubt not, my lady,” he recited. “Doubt not. I shall return. Doubt not my blade.”
“It’s steel,” someone corrected, adding a corrective thump to the back. “Doubt not my steel.”
“Right, right.” He concentrated on the muddy ground. “Doubt not my steel. Doubt not my strength. And there’s something more, and something else about the king, and then ‘you remain queen of my heart’ and it ends with, ‘For my lady, and for Moranglia.’ ” He lifted his head. “There, is that good enough?”
“No.” He recognized Wendell Butterfield’s voice. “That was pathetic.”
“He’s just using us,” the first knight said again. “Once he gets what he wants, he’ll forget us. Cut us in the street. Make sport of our rituals at his fancy gentlemen’s clubs. He doesn’t understand how we are.”
Ransom shook his head. “No, no. No one likes me at those clubs, either. Believe me, I know what it’s like to be reviled. I was gravely injured seven months ago, and guess how many visitors and well-wishers I’ve had? Exactly none. I’m an outcast, too.”
“A wealthy, highly ranked outcast with a half dozen estates,” Wendell pointed out.
“At the moment, yes. But if my solicitors and heir have their way, I could lose everything. Make no mistake, I’m not asking your help for me. I need to protect Miss Goodnight. If this hearing doesn’t go well, she will be forced to sell the home of her dreams. Allow me to join your ranks, and I swear to you: We will be united in a higher purpose. Her.”
There was a prolonged silence.
Ransom didn’t know what more he could say.
“I’ll take that as your solemn oath.” Sir Wendell laid a blunted sword to his shoulder. “I dub thee Sir Ransom, a brother in the Order of the Poppy and a true knight of Moranglia.”
Thank God.
“Order of the Poppy,” Ransom mused, as his hands were cut loose. He rubbed his chafed wrists. “Does this mean we get to smoke opium now?”
“No,” Wendell said. But to his compatriot, he added, “Pass him the mead.”
A flask of sweet, sticky wine was offered to him. Ransom drank from it. “Not bad. You have my thanks, Sir Wendell.”
“Brother Wendell,” he corrected. “You’re one of us now.”
Really. He was one of them now.
How unexpected. There, kneeling in the forest, surrounded by men who represented the odd pegs and loose ends of English public schools, Ransom was seized by the strangest, most unfamiliar sensation.
Acceptance.
“And when we’re not on guard,” Wendell went on, “it’s Mr. Wendell Butterfield, Esquire.”
“Esquire?” Ransom repeated. “But . . . you can’t mean you’re a barrister?”
“Oh, yes. I am.”
“I didn’t know they allowed barristers to spend their free time tromping the forest in makeshift armor.”
Wendell answered, “Why not? We spend our work days wearing long black robes and powdered wigs.”