Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

Ransom found his feet and shoved one of his assailants into the edge of the wall before they could drag him into the gap of the alley. The young man grunted in pain and let go. With his newly freed hand, he clenched a fist and punched the other fellow who was restraining him in the jaw, dropping him with a single blow. Ransom lifted his head, feeling one of his eyes swelling shut, and saw three more in front of him, including Wigant’s heir. A look of surprise flitted across that usually smug face as Ransom tackled the duke’s son into the alley wall.

The two slammed into the side of the stables, and horses inside began to complain noisily. James’s head slammed back into the wall a second time before the others grabbed Ransom and yanked him away. He saw the staff coming toward his face and ducked at the last moment. The blow that had been intended for him struck one of the others instead, making the youth slump to the ground. It was a boy named Bart who held the staff, and Ransom charged him. They wrestled with it a moment before Ransom flung him into the side of the stables.

James tackled Ransom onto the cobblestones, and his fist collided with Ransom’s skull twice. The pain was jarring, but Ransom still felt that odd, invigorating sensation. Despite his injuries, he felt full of energy. Brimming with it. He rolled to one side, and James barked in pain as his fist hit the stones instead. Ransom twisted and managed to kick James in the stomach, knocking him backward. That gave Ransom the chance to make it back to his feet, and suddenly he sensed someone behind him—Bart with the reclaimed staff. The sensation came too late, though, and the wooden weapon slid across his front and pinned him to Bart’s body.

“Hit him! Hit him!” Bart shouted in his ear.

Another youth, Delbert Finn, arrived first and began hammering his fists into Ransom’s stomach. Strangely, the blows caused no pain at all. It was like all the hurt was being forced into a small corner of Ransom’s mind. After the fourth blow, he still felt nothing, so he rocked his head back into Bart’s face and then shoved forward, freeing himself. Delbert gaped in surprise before Ransom punched him in the nose so hard the lad fell to the ground in a heap.

James stared at Ransom in alarm. Four other boys lay sprawled in the alley. His henchmen had all lost the will for this fight. James pressed his wounded hand against his own chest, his face betraying both cowardice and hatred.

Ransom breathed hard, but he didn’t back down.

“You served the traitor king,” James seethed. “He stole the hollow crown. You don’t deserve to be here.”

Ransom had no words. The accusation of King Gervase being a traitor sent a bolt of white-hot anger into his mind. He rushed forward and knocked James down, pummeling him over and over. Blood oozed from the broken nose. Finally, Ransom stopped. He found himself kneeling on James’s body, hand cocked back for another punch, which he did not deliver. The lad was thoroughly defeated.

Ransom rose and turned around, fist still poised to deliver another blow. The other lads shrunk from him. One was crying. He studied their faces, one by one, meeting their eyes and delivering an unspoken warning. If they ever tried that again, he would not restrain himself. He tasted blood in his mouth.

The pain he’d boxed within his mind began to squirm free. His arms and fists ached. So did his torso and back. There would be bruises—oh, there would be many bruises! There were five of them in all, including the duke’s son writhing on the ground. Five against one. Ransom couldn’t believe he’d beaten them all. He shouldn’t have been able to do that. The rushing noise of the falls receded. A seabird squealed in the distance, reminding him that he was in Averanche, not Kingfountain.

He walked out of the alley, trying not to limp. Everything hurt, but the satisfaction that he’d not been thrashed by Wigant and his henchmen filled his mouth with a sweet taste. It felt wonderful.

Even though it hurt.



Ransom leaned against the battlements, his arms resting on a blocky merlon as he stared out to sea. The sun was setting in the west, and the spire of a sanctuary caught his eye along the western coast—Our Lady of Toussan, off the shores of Brythonica. If he looked to the east, he saw St. Penryn. As he glanced from one to the other, he felt drawn to them. Now that the fight was over, he’d cleaned himself up, and his entire body ached with pain, he wondered if he’d need to seek sanctuary in one of those places to keep the duke’s son from killing him.

Regret throbbed inside him, as insistent as the pain in his arms. He breathed out, and his chest hurt too. A breeze ruffled the air, bringing that briny scent from the ocean with it. His nose hurt. Although his left eye hadn’t swollen completely shut, it was trying to, and he could only squint from it. A dull ache in his back reminded him that sleep would not be easy this night. Well, it wouldn’t be easy for any of them.

The knowledge that he’d knocked down a duke’s son stoked the ill feelings roiling in his stomach and chest. James’s father was Duke Wigant of North Cumbria. The duke of the North. Ransom was a second-born son who had served a king who had long since fallen out of favor with the people because of the endless civil war. Perhaps he should have let the other boys thrash him. But with that thought came a defiant clench of his jaw. No.

He heard boots climbing the stairs leading to the defenses. Was it time for the changing of the guard? But as the steps came closer, he recognized the sound of the stride. It was Captain Baldwin.

Ransom couldn’t hide his injuries, so he just stared at the sea and pretended he couldn’t hear the other man approach.

Baldwin reached him and leaned against the adjacent merlon. Ransom could see the stripes of gray in his mostly nut-brown beard. They stood there awhile, silently, gazing at the rippling waters before they turned into waves that came crashing against the sandy shore below.

“You don’t look so bad compared to most of the other lads,” said Baldwin finally.

Ransom sighed. “Am I in trouble, Baldwin?”