Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

Ransom wondered if the boy he’d seen in the great hall was the son. “The Duke of North Cumbria is Lord Wigant.” He was embroiled in an endless war with Atabyrion, attempting to drive them out of the North, and had never had men to spare for King Gervase.

“The same,” said Lord Kinghorn. “His son, James, is worth more than the rest of them combined in terms of wealth and prestige.” The nobleman’s eyes narrowed. “But not in skill at arms. I’m willing to take you in, my boy, but you must prove yourself if you want to stay. Because you are my kinsman, I will have my captain work you harder than the rest. I do the same for James. I have no favorites, and I will not have it said that Lord Kinghorn bestows favors or honors that are undeserved.”

Ransom swallowed, his stomach squirming again. “I came here to earn it, my lord.” Unfortunately, his voice quavered a bit.

“Good. Many of the rowdy youths you passed to get here will not become knights. As you know, there are many orders of knighthood. With some, you must buy your way in. Others honor certain achievements. I am a Vox knight, my boy. Have you heard of it?”

Ransom shook his head no.

Lord Bryon leaned back in his chair, the leather squeaking as he shifted, and steepled his fingers. “‘Vox’ is an ancient word. It means voice. At this castle, you will learn how to fight, to ride a destrier, and you will also learn languages, taxes, and ceremony. But the most important thing you could learn here is to listen to the voice.”

Ransom felt a prickle go down his back. He looked at Lord Kinghorn with confusion and interest.

“The voice of the Fountain,” he said. “One becomes a Vox knight by making a pilgrimage to a holy site. I have done so, and yet I have still not heard the voice. That is why I have all of these.” He gestured to the books. “My efforts continue.”

Ransom felt a little tremble at the words. A giddy excitement began to form inside him. Some deep part of him said that Lord Kinghorn could be trusted.



The first week of training at Averanche castle was the most difficult and enjoyable thing Ransom had ever done. Every night he went to bed sore. He had blisters on his hands from climbing ropes and swinging staves and swords. His legs ached from climbing obstacles, and he’d earned a few bruises in the practice yard. Captain Baldwin was the bearlike man who had shouted at the younger pups to be silent the night Ransom had arrived. After a few days of rough training, even the simple food they were given began to taste delicious. Baldwin was in charge of training the youths, and he fulfilled Lord Kinghorn’s instructions with relish, always making Ransom and James Wigant, whom he mockingly called Jack, work harder than the rest.

Ransom could tell the duke’s son had taken an instant dislike to him. He didn’t know why, other than that James was the unofficial leader of those in training, and everyone usually deferred to him. Ransom was the only one who could beat him in the training yard—and he did it regularly. Did James resent him because he didn’t let him win? Could he not abide being defeated by anyone else?

James had several young men who acted as his personal guard, as if he were already trying to form his own mesnie. On the fourth day, the members of his gang started going out of their way to elbow Ransom in the ribs or shove him without cause. No, there was a cause. They were acting on James’s orders. Ransom ignored the subtle abuse, always done when Baldwin wasn’t looking. One day, the other boys goaded Ransom into telling the tale of how King Gervase had spared his life. The duke’s son listened with interest and then scorn, and at the end of the telling, he said, “He should have launched you from the trebuchet. I would have.”

The mistreatment drove Ransom to work even harder, but the abuse became worse, and he didn’t feel he could go to Lord Kinghorn and complain.

It continued into the second week and the third. Ransom felt he was earning respect from the other boys, but none of them tried to befriend him. James had taken to mocking him during dinner, but Ransom refused to rise to the bait. Some of the other boys looked away in discomfort when it happened.

It was during the fourth week that an incident happened in the training yard. Baldwin had matched up Ransom and James with heavy two-handed swords, which he said were popular with knights in Occitania. Baldwin called them bastard swords because they were longer than the ones knights in Ceredigion typically used and required two hands, thus precluding the use of a shield.

Ransom found the weapon intuitive and natural considering his size and strength. Every time James came at him, he blocked the other boy and knocked him back. It felt as if the sword swung itself, and while it was heavier than the wooden practice blades, he didn’t get tired as they confronted each other. James became more and more frustrated as the two of them continued to spar.

The weight of the sword tired out James, but Ransom felt as fresh as he had at the start of the day. A thrill went through him as he warded off his adversary’s relentless attacks, parrying each strike. When their blades locked, Ransom used his greater size to throw the young man back, and James stumbled and went down, earning some involuntary surprised chuckles from some of the boys.

James lifted his helmet visor, his eyes full of hate and rage.

Baldwin saw the look and stepped between them. “I think that’s far enough. Hand your blades to me.” Ransom, though breathing fast, didn’t feel winded at all. He’d loved the feeling of handling the sword with both hands. He lowered the blade and handed it to Captain Baldwin before raising his visor. James panted heavily, his brow drenched with sweat, and clambered to his feet.

Ransom felt a prickle of warning that the other boy might attack him now that he was defenseless. He didn’t know why he felt that, but it was a shuddering sensation that went down to his toes. Ransom held James’s gaze as if to meet the challenge he had not yet made, grateful he still wore a hauberk, bracers, gauntlets, and a helmet.

James bent over, gulping down air, and gave Ransom a deadly look.