Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

I can’t believe it has been so long since I wrote the last entry. Time has rushed on nineteen to a dozen. Maybe I’m having trouble reckoning the last five years because they’ve been so hard. When Da arrived in Legault, he had naught but trouble. Every day brought a new test, a new challenge. When our boat landed, a mob sent by a rival lord tried to abduct me, and we had to put out to sea again to avoid capture. That was only the start. Men who owed Da homage refused to bend the knee, complaining of sickness, a death in the family, a broken toe. What did they take us for, eejits? None of them wanted to be ruled by a noble from Ceredigion, even though he’d married the daughter of their king. Aye, these years have brought us much trouble and great expense.

Finally, after three years of such nonsense, King Devon Argentine sent a message to Da, offering to help settle the peace. Da is a proud man. He never would have asked for help. But the king saw that if one of his vassals lost his holdings in Legault, it would prove a bad omen for the future of the court of Kingfountain. He sent Duke Wigant of the North to assist. Since the king had helped the duke repulse the Atabyrions, he owed him a favor, shall we say. With Duke Wigant’s help, those knaves who opposed Da sued for peace and swore fealty to him as they ought to have done when we first arrived. The duke told Da about his eldest son, James, who was training to be a knight in the duchy of Westmarch. I think he meant to win Da’s favor and possibly my hand. I am seventeen after all. But Da told him that any man who tries to woo me must first prove himself worthy of me. Lord Wigant praised his son overmuch, bragging that he’d be knighted soon. I’m not keen on being attached so soon. Wigant’s son might be the best of men. But then again, a man rarely is.

—Claire de Murrow

Connaught Castle, Kingdom of Legault, the Fair Isle





CHAPTER FIVE

The Drums of War

James let out a long, exaggerated sigh and let his book thump shut. Ransom tried to ignore his companion as he peered at his own book and tried to work out the translation in his mind. It was difficult translating a book where every other word had three possible meanings, all of which he had to keep juggling in his mind as he conjugated the correct declensions.

“I’m tired of reading this rubbish,” James said to him. “Let’s go for a walk on the beach.”

Ransom read the passage aloud, “Evaunt il lout mitre ensemble il lapel la mort le veil auters.”

“Your accent is terrible, Ransom. Like gobs of moldy cheese in good wine. It goes like this, Ebaunt il louez mi très ensemble, il appelle la mort de le veil reigne. You really need to work on your old speech.”

“I know, but it doesn’t roll off my tongue like it does yours,” Ransom replied, a little jealous that no matter how hard he worked on the language, it didn’t come naturally to him. “That’s why I’m practicing.”

“Let’s go for a walk on the beach instead. I promise I’ll speak nothing but the old tongue on our way. It would be like practicing. If we’re lucky, we might even get in a fight. Come, this room is stifling me!”

Ransom wouldn’t say that he and James were friends. But Lord Kinghorn’s wishes had been fulfilled. They were no longer rivals, and indeed, they had learned from each other. James continually tried to best Ransom in feats of arms and never could, but his ability with languages, laws, and strategy had proven to be equally valuable. They had been together every day since that fateful ambush by the stables, and while neither young man cared for the other, they did share a mutual respect. The two of them made, it turned out, a formidable team. More than once James had told Ransom that he’d be willing to take him in as a household knight once he was permitted to create a mesnie of his own. It was an offer he’d be a fool not to consider, yet he didn’t trust the man who’d made it. To serve a man was to pursue his ends, and Ransom doubted he would ever agree with James’s choices.

Looking down at the page with its calligraphic writing and colorful artwork drawn by a scholar’s hand, Ransom wondered whether he should rebuff James’s request for a jaunt down by the beach.

“Come on!” pleaded the duke’s son. “I’ll even start the fight. And you can win it.”

Ransom put a leather marker in place and gently closed the book. “You’re not eager to go out there because of some fisherman’s daughter, are you? I think I’d rather hear a flock of gulls squawking than listen to you try to woo another woman.”

“Like anything, wooing takes practice, Ransom. Better to practice on a peasant maid than a princess.”

“I’ll keep reading, then,” Ransom said, opening the book and looking down.

“I was joking, Ransom. Joking. Besides, it’s already past sunset, and the fishermen have all hauled in their catches by now. The beach is probably empty, awaiting the tide to come in. You know you don’t want to sit here reading until the candle burns out again. Let’s go outside!”

Ransom hung his head. Sometimes he detested James. Sometimes he tolerated him. But it would never fail to bother him that the education on knightly conduct passed between James’s ears without once getting snared in a cobweb of thought. Honor, duty, loyalty—those were only words to the duke’s son. Virtus. James could say it elegantly, the accent and inflection perfect. But his actions didn’t match.