Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

“Amen,” came the united response. Ransom felt a chill go down his spine. In his ears, far away, he heard the murmur of the falls outside Kingfountain.

Lord Kinghorn went to James first. “James Wigant, heir to the duchy of North Cumbria. I bestow on you the order of knighthood. You are hereby permitted to kill in the king’s name, the sin be on his head and not yours. Prepare to receive the gift of the collier.” James clenched his jaw, tightened his fists, and Lord Kinghorn backhanded him across the face with his gauntlet. A little cut tore at James’s cheek, followed by a dribble of blood. The look of shock on James’s face shifted to anger, and then satisfaction. The blow hadn’t knocked him down.

Lord Kinghorn looked at all the young men kneeling, one by one. “The collier is a symbol. It is the last blow you will receive without being allowed a reprisal. If any man strikes you hence, you have the freedom to strike back.” He held up his finger, which gleamed in the torchlight. “But while a knight may strike back, a true knight will yield that right. He will resist. It is a token of Virtus to be able to exact revenge and to choose mercy instead.”

He approached Ransom next. “Marshall Barton, son of Lord Barton of the Heath. I bestow on you the order of knighthood. You are hereby permitted to kill in the king’s name, the sin be on his head and not yours. Prepare to receive the gift of the collier.”



They rode south from Menonval. Ransom’s heart burned with pride at the honor bestowed upon him. Lord Kinghorn’s gauntlet had struck his brow, but it had not bled. The small pulse of pain he’d felt was nothing compared to what he’d endured in the training yard. Excitement to face the enemy coursed through him. He nudged Gemmell’s flanks to increase the horse’s speed and passed Sir Gordon on the road. They were all knights now, of the same rank and station. Sir Gordon glanced at him in annoyance, but Ransom didn’t care. He’d beaten Gordon many times in the training yard. And the desire to be at the front of the ranks was overpowering.

Ransom passed another few, gaining on the leaders, which included the surly Sir Jude. Trees grew on the right side of the road before it bent, offering a blind spot to hide the presence of the Brugian knights. He felt certain a trap was waiting for them there, but it would have felt impudent to say so given that the others were so much more experienced. Surely they knew better than he did. Still, if there was to be trouble, he wanted to be in the thick of it. It almost felt like he needed it.

Soon he’d passed all but three other knights. When he tapped Gemmell again to quicken his pace, he heard Lord Kinghorn’s stern reprimand.

“Barton! Get back. Let these knights pass!”

The reproof stung his feelings and made his cheeks flush with shame. He loosened his grip on the reins, allowing the older knights to pass him, and Sir Gordon offered a smirk as he passed by. Ransom’s ears were burning inside his helmet. Wasn’t he a knight too? He was so humiliated he dared not look at Lord Kinghorn’s face.

James reached Ransom and slowed a bit. “So anxious to die?” he asked with a provoking smile.

Ransom seethed, but he didn’t say anything. Now that the younger knights were catching up, he allowed himself to increase his pace again, passing in front of James and the slowest of the older knights. He expected the skirmish would start as soon as they reached the trees.

But there was no skirmish. The road bent around the woods and continued toward a distant bridge. Farm fields lay around the woods, with locals using small teams of horses in their labors.

The bridge wasn’t far. A few buildings, mostly barns, sat off the side of the road. His feelings still raw from Lord Kinghorn’s reprimand, Ransom focused his attention on the road and the bridge. Light flashed off metal in the distance. His insides began to squirm.

“They’re guarding the bridge,” Ransom said to himself. He felt a pulse of warning, a sickening realization that the fight was upon them. His anxiety quelled as the familiar rushing sound of water filled his ears. He reached for one of his two lances and pulled it out of its saddle pocket.

“Oy!” shouted Captain Baldwin. “What are you doing!”

Ransom could barely hear him over the tumult of his heartbeat and the rushing noise in his ears. The knights in front of him reached for their lances as well. Ransom kicked Gemmell’s flanks.

“Easy, lads,” Lord Kinghorn ordered. “Don’t rush. Save your strength.”

As they came closer, Ransom saw the knights guarding the bridge had a different style of armor, with helmets and nose guards that covered the tips of their noses. Each had a long, narrow shield bearing the colors of Brugia.

They charged at Lord Kinghorn’s men.

“Ready your lances!” Lord Kinghorn shouted. “They’re charging us!”

Ransom’s heart thundered in his chest. He already had his prepared. Their steeds began to snort in anticipation of the violence. Gemmell’s nostrils flared, and the beast let out an otherworldly shriek. Ransom tried to swallow, but his throat was too tight. Men began to shout, spewing not words but emotions.

Then the battle cry started. “Averanche! Averanche! Averanche!”