Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

Ransom dug his fingers into Talbot’s muscle. “Simon said you were sent to deliver the surrender. What happened?”

Talbot nodded, then started sobbing. “The king thought . . . it was a trick. He trusts his son not at all. I swore on the Fountain, by the Lady of the Fountain, that it was true, that Devon wishes to see him before he dies. But the king sent me away. I can’t bring myself to tell him, Ransom. He wanted to beg his father’s pardon before he died. He’s afraid . . . he’s afraid of going to the Deep Fathoms. It was Robert who turned Devon away from you. I don’t know why we believed him. He was jealous of you from the start.”

“Where is Robert?”

“In the dungeon,” said Talbot with malice. He broke down weeping again. “I can’t do it, Ransom. I can’t. You have to tell him. His father won’t come in time. He won’t see his mother either, or his brothers.”

Ransom stared at Talbot, feeling himself ready to break down. Why was it up to him to deliver the dark tidings? Devon had dismissed him from his bonds of loyalty, and yet they existed still within his chest. They felt like chains. Seeing Talbot so distraught had withered his remaining hope that Devon might yet recover.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

He was brought to the chamber where Devon lay dying. The healer, a barber from the village below, wrung his hands and shrugged helplessly as he looked at Ransom. His bushy black-and-gray beard, so full compared to his balding head, made him look almost comical, but no levity was possible at such a moment. Ransom bit his lip as he gazed at the almost corpse on the bed.

Devon had shrunk since Ransom had last seen him. Blood seeped from his eyes, staining his pillow. His teeth were yellow and his lips chapped. The smell of filth permeated the chamber in a nauseating mist. Ransom nearly choked on it. He stared down at his friend, his king, and all feelings of resentment vanished, replaced by pity.

“Ransom,” Devon croaked, the sound otherworldly.

The knight approached the bedstead, and the barber fled the room. Even though the hearth was blazing, Devon trembled as if frigid. His eyes were closed, scabbed, but he’d still sensed Ransom. Or could he see him?

“I’m here,” Ransom said, coming to the edge of the bed. He knelt by it, still perceiving the presence of the cloaked lady beneath the castle. He took the king’s hand in his own.

“Is it really you, my friend?”

“Yes. Simon came and told me. I rode all night.”

The chapped lips tugged into a smile. “I don’t deserve . . .” The words failed as a coughing fit started. Bloody spume came from his mouth. Ransom dabbed his lips with a soiled towel that lay near the bed.

Devon struggled to quiet the rattling in his chest, but his breath came in agonized fits, each gulp of air a struggle. The pain the Younger King endured was horrific to behold. Ransom closed a fist and pressed it against his mouth, trying not to weep.

“I don’t . . . deserve . . . your loyalty,” rasped the young king. “But I thank . . . you . . . for it.”

“You will always have it,” Ransom whispered. He felt tears trickle down his cheeks. His heart throbbed with compassion and concern, and his restored loyalty to the king brought him strength. It filled the well inside him.

“It was . . . Noemie. Her lies . . . drove my actions. She’s gone. Back to her people.” He swallowed, wincing.

“I should have told you,” Ransom said. “She tried . . . but I never wanted it. I wanted Claire.”

“I know. That pains me still. I knew it, but I was so jealous. It blinded me . . . to the truth. My father was right . . . about Lewis. I see it now. Father is always right.” His labored breathing began to slow. “He’s not coming.”

Ransom squeezed his hand. “Talbot tried. But there is no trust left.”

Devon swallowed again, grimacing once more in agony. “I hoped . . . but you’re right. I betrayed him every day. In my heart. Ransom, tell him . . . for me . . . that I’m sorry. He hates me.”

“He loves you,” Ransom said thickly. He remembered the horrible noise the Elder King had made after they left his tent years ago. It was a cry of anguish from a man whose beloved eldest son had disappointed him.

“I’m such a failure,” Devon gasped. His breathing became shallower. “I wanted so much . . . to be the king.”

“You are my king,” Ransom said, the tears flowing freely now.

“I was only a pretend one,” Devon whispered. “I should have done more. Tell Mother . . . love . . . her.”

Ransom squeezed his hand again.

“Father . . . have mercy.”

“I’ll tell him,” Ransom said, wishing he didn’t have to witness the Younger King’s death or relate the news to his family. But such was his fate. Such was the cost of loyalty.

“Ransom . . .”

“I’m here,” he said, half-blinded by tears. He waited, listening, aching, his heart swollen with grief.

“Forgive . . . me . . .”

Ransom hung his head, still gripping the Younger King’s hand. “I do.”

The gentle grip on his hand failed, the last wheeze of a breath coming out like a sigh. And then he was gone. Heat scorched Ransom’s eyes as he stared down at the waxen face. It looked so little like his friend. Gone was the man’s ever-present smile, his good-natured camaraderie, and his ambition too. All that was left was a husk.

Ransom released his grip, and Devon’s arm fell onto the sheet.

“If I cannot serve you any longer here,” he said, making it a vow, “then I will serve you next in the Deep Fathoms.”

He rose from the bedside and walked to the door. Opening it, he saw Sir Alain and Sir Talbot waiting there. They looked at him eagerly, hopefully, but he shook his head, communicating with his silence that the king was dead.

Talbot broke down in tears.

Alain shook his head, his grief obvious, but he could still speak. “Someone will need to tell his father.” He looked at Ransom pointedly, while Talbot shook his head in horror.

“I will do it,” Ransom said. “Have a horse prepared for me.”

But he had a visit to make first.