Lady's Ransom (The First Argentines, #3)

Ransom had reached the top of the stairs, and still little clumps of snow were dropping from his cloak and sloughing from his boots. He opened the door to the bedroom and felt the heat from the brazier mix with the icy wind coming from the open window. Claire sat on a cushion at the window seat, a small round pillow at her back and a heavy book resting on her protruding belly.

She turned a page and then glanced up at him. “Did you enjoy your ride?”

He tugged off his gloves and set them on an end table. Keeva, who was tidying up the room, flashed him a smile in greeting.

“There was a herd of moose elk roaming through the frozen meadow,” he said. “I wish I’d brought my bow, for I could have killed several before they charged away. The snow is very deep right now. We didn’t go far.”

“I imagine not,” she said, still focused on the page. “Who went with you?”

“Dearley, Axien, and Guivret,” he said. “I thought Dearley needed to get out of the castle for a while. The cold air did some good.”

When he removed his coat, Keeva came and took it from him and hung it by the brazier to dry it out. Ransom approached the window seat and planted a kiss on Claire’s beautiful hair. Things had been strained between them since he’d returned home from Ceredigion months before. He wondered if it was just the altering moods caused by her difficult pregnancy, but he feared it was more than that. He didn’t understand what it could be, but she’d altered since his journey.

“What are you reading, my love?” he asked softly, toying with her hair.

“I’m going through the books Lord Tenthor found at Dougal’s castle,” she said. “He had quite a collection, ten books in all, which is considerable for such a man.”

“Sir Bryon has twenty books, I think,” Ransom said.

“Twenty-seven actually,” Claire said, still not looking up. “Sir Dalian told me his father is a deep reader. This one is very interesting.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a record of King Andrew and Queen Genevieve. I’ve never seen this one before. It’s not a translation from Occitanian, like others I’ve read. This one was written in Gaultic.”

Ransom glanced at the page and could hardly recognize the script let alone the words. “How does it differ from the other legends?” he asked.

She looked up at him and then put a strip of ribbon in the pages to save her place and set the book down on the cushion. “If you rub my feet, I shall tell you. I warn you that my ankles are very swollen today.”

Ransom nodded and sat down at her feet. He removed her slippers and began massaging her feet and ankles. She winced and pressed her lower back, clearly uncomfortable. Many nights she couldn’t sleep at all and just wandered the room pacing and wretched while he slumbered. It wasn’t fair, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it other than offer little assistances whenever she asked.

“We both know the stories about Andrew’s sword, Firebos, and the Ring Table his mesnie sat around at his palace because all of his men were Fountain-blessed and ranked equally. There were magical ravens in the story that came and attacked the soldiers. The book also speaks of the scabbard, which we both know is real. Dougal, or some other person, had marked a note in the margins about how much he coveted it. He made other defacements as well, which are curious. I won’t bore you. But this Gaultic record says he had a special Wizr set, one with pieces that moved of their own accord.”

Ransom listened keenly. “The one we’ve spoken of before.”

“Yes. Andrew used to play Wizr against one of his bravest knights, Sir Owain. Did you know of that?”

“No,” Ransom said. “I wonder if Estian took the set with him to the East Kingdoms?”

Claire shrugged. “The Wizr set is very powerful, according to the record. More so than we thought.”

“It must be,” Ransom agreed. “Knowing your enemy’s position is a key part of war.”

“No, more than just that. The book says the fate of kingdoms is determined by who wins the game. Leoneyis was drowned because of it. It is powerful magic, Ransom.” Her eyes glittered with interest as she spoke. “I think the curse that banished the Aos Sí beneath the waves is connected to that Wizr set. Perhaps they were not cursed to live below the waters forever . . . only until a certain number of games were played.”

A troubled feeling bloomed in his chest. “I’d hesitate to trust a book without knowing who wrote it and why.” He picked it up and opened to a random page. The script was illegible to him. “Are you sure you read it right? I’ve studied the old speech, but this is nothing like it.”

“Of course it isn’t, you brainless badger,” she teased, evoking feelings of their past banter. But the lightness faded quickly, gone too soon. “This isn’t the old speech. It’s ancient Gaultic.”

“But how can you even read it?” he asked.

She looked down. “Practice, I guess. I just kept staring and staring at the words until they started to make sense.”

She isn’t telling the truth.

The subtle whisper in his mind only increased his worries. What did that prompting mean? How else could she have read the writings? He pressed his thumbs into her swollen feet, trying to ease her discomfort, yet he felt ill at ease and heartsick. Why had she lied about such a thing? And why had the Fountain seen fit to tell him?

“I’m impressed,” he finally said. “But then you’ve always been clever.”

She smiled at the compliment, her eyes still downcast.

“Where did King Andrew go? Did the record say?”

Her gaze lifted, and she looked him in the eye. “I’m not there yet. This book talks more about the Lady of the Fountain. It says she was Myrddin’s lover. It’s a very strange story. You see, Myrddin had two stones that helped him translate languages and see the past, future, and present. Before he was tricked into captivity by the Lady of the Fountain, he gave the stones to Andrew, who had them mounted into a breastplate.”

As she spoke, he felt increasingly uneasy. He knew this story from the Duchess of Brythonica, although he couldn’t reveal that to Claire.

“That’s interesting,” he said in a neutral voice.

“I thought so too,” she said. “King Andrew had the Wizr set, the sword, the scabbard, and the stones. It made him a powerful king. But even still . . . his kingdom failed.” Her nose twitched, her look of discomfort becoming more pronounced.

“Would you like me to massage your back?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Some cramps have been coming on,” she said. “I could hardly sleep last night because of them. They go away but then return even stronger. I haven’t felt this way before.” She let out a whistling breath. He watched her, worried, and she reached for his hand. When he took it, she clenched it very hard, surprising him.

Keeva approached. “Are you unwell, my lady?”

“I’ve been unwell for many, many months,” Claire answered. “There . . . it’s passing. Your son is wriggling right now. I wish he’d go to sleep.”

“Would you like something to drink?” Keeva asked. “Some spiced fíon perhaps?”

Sometimes Keeva resorted to Gaultic words when she didn’t know their counterpart in Ceredigic. She spoke both languages but typically stuck to Ceredigic to make Ransom comfortable.

“No, I’ll be sick if I take even a sip,” Claire said. “I just can’t get comfortable.”

“Maybe you should read some more?” Ransom suggested.

“I’m tired of reading. I’m tired of feeling like this!”

“I’m going to fetch the midwife,” Keeva said urgently, starting for the door.

“What can she do?” Claire said with a little contempt. “It’s not like I’m ready to give birth today.”

Keeva gave her a small smile. “Actually, my lady, I think you are!”

Claire glanced up at Ransom in sudden fear.

He clenched her hand in return. “Is it time?” he wondered.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never done this before.”