Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

The city is draped in black. It is quite a different scene from the celebration of the Younger King’s coronation. So much has changed. It reminds me of when I was a little girl. I watched them tilt King Gervase’s boat into the river. I didn’t believe it would happen again until the Elder King died. None of us can see the future, for there are no longer any Wizrs who possess that awful gift. Or maybe they never existed.

They send Devon on a boat in the hopes that his body will be reunited with his soul in the Deep Fathoms. But the Aos Sí rule that realm, and they mock our mortal traditions. My beliefs would be heresy here in Kingfountain, of course. I must keep them to myself. Above all, the people of Ceredigion prize loyalty. They would not welcome this son who betrayed everyone around him. That is the problem with our world. Loyalty has died.

—Claire de Murrow

Cistern Garden, Kingdom of Ceredigion





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Into the Falls

Ransom tried not to limp as he carried the canoe holding the body of the Younger King, tightly gripping the staff that supported it. Memories flooded him—the king’s easy laughter, his excitement about the tournaments, his tireless desire to prove himself. He’d been such a charming man, one who could win over anyone in the world except for his own father. And, apparently, his own wife.

But while those memories were fresh in his mind, the past conjured others no less potent. He’d watched Sir William Chappell perform this very feat for King Gervase. And now Ransom stood in his place, his old friend and mentor long since dead, killed on a bloody road to protect the queen. And for what? Now she sat in a different kind of prison.

He heard the falls because of their proximity, but he strained to hear the noise inside his soul. He felt empty, bruised, and forsaken. Once again, he had no one to serve. Part of him had hoped the Elder King would ask him to stay after he’d revealed his plans for the pilgrimage. The Elder King had only shrugged and said to do what he must.

Ransom had been watching the queen’s tower, hoping to catch a glimpse of Claire one last time before he left. But there was nothing to see. The tower looked empty and desolate. He still had the necklace he’d bought her. But there was no way to get it to her.

Directly across from him, holding the other length of the pole, stood Sir James. Ransom avoided his gaze, feeling nothing but contempt and loathing for the man. Some of those involved in the rebellion had fled to Occitania. But not Sir James. No doubt he’d tried to pass his share of the blame to someone else, most likely the Younger King himself. But Ransom respected most of the other men seeing Devon to his rest. Sir Simon and Lord Kinghorn were among them, and so were Sirs Talbot and Alain.

They reached the end of the dock, and the deconeus of the sanctuary gave a brief speech. The Elder King stood there wearing a sable cloak with a wolf-pelt trim. The hollow crown was fixed on his brow, his eyebrows nettled with pent-up emotion. But he looked grim, angry, and defiant. Standing by him were his three surviving sons—Bennett, Goff, and Jon-Landon. Bennett and Goff each stood on opposite sides of the king. Their enmity for each other was plain to see in their dark brows and twisted frowns. Jon-Landon looked bored and disinterested in the events. He wasn’t much older than Ransom had been when he’d left Kingfountain to make his way in the world.

Crackles of thunder sounded overhead, even though the sky was barren of clouds. Ransom looked up and saw thunderheads emerging from the northern skies. The season had been calm and beautiful, but it appeared they’d have a storm.

At the conclusion of the rites, Ransom and James hoisted their staves higher, forming a ramp so the canoe would tilt and go down into the waters. He felt the release of pressure from it, and watched and heard the scraping sound of wood against wood. Then the canoe splashed into the swift-flowing river. Ransom stared at the waxen face of his friend, his king, as the canoe bobbed in the water before the current took it away. He made the knightly salute as a token of farewell.

Sir James released the staff and sniffed. Ransom clutched the pole, unable to bear looking at the man.

“I heard you’re leaving on a journey,” said James at his shoulder.

“You’re glad I’ll be gone,” Ransom said with a tone of rancor.

James chuffed. “Yes. Don’t hurry back. I’ve heard Kinghorn’s son has hopes of marrying Claire. Maybe she’ll finally say yes to someone. She wouldn’t want a gimp anyway.”

Some people were skilled with the poison of words.

Ransom turned his head, and the smug look on James’s face made it obvious how much he relished sowing discord. He’d done the same with Devon—and it had led the Younger King to his death.

Ransom swung the staff into James’s stomach, knocking the wind from him, then cracked it down on his head, which made him collapse in stunned silence and pain. Shocked murmurs rose from the crowd, and the king’s eyes blazed with wrath. Ransom handed the staff to Sir Simon, nodded to him, and then walked purposefully away, still trying to conceal the limp. This time, he hoped, he’d never return to Kingfountain.

The time had come for Ransom Barton to be his own man.





EPILOGUE

The Secrets of Lewis the Wise

King Lewis sat on an overstuffed chair in his private chamber, his swollen foot resting on a padded stool, yet still the pain knifed through him. His barber had suggested cutting off the foot, insisting the disease would only spread up his leg if he let it continue, but he refused to give the disease such a victory. Bowing his head, he focused on the pain, so he didn’t hear the door squeak as it opened.

At the sound of the door shutting, he lifted his head and opened his eyes. His only son, Estian, stood by the entrance. Seeing his boy caused him a mixture of grief and pride.

“Were you asleep, Father?” asked the prince. It was late afternoon, but sometimes Lewis was so exhausted by then he couldn’t keep his eyes open.