Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

The constable of Westmarch was a knight named Dyron Rakestraw. He had been a knight of Devon Argentine’s mesnie for many years and many seasons. Although Lord Kinghorn was older, the constable outranked him, and now that he and his men had arrived, he was in command. He had also summoned both Lord Kinghorn and Ransom to call upon him, a fact that made Ransom feel both anxious and excited as the two stood opposite the constable’s command tent. The guards posted outside it opened the door and bid them enter. As they did so, Ransom took in the well-lit interior of the tent, which had luxurious fur rugs and a hefty camp cot for its occupant.

“Ah, Bryon, well met,” said Dyron with a broad smile. The man had a bushy beard and close-cropped hair. He was a giant of a man, comparable in size to Captain Baldwin. “Is this the lad, then?”

“Yes, this is Marshall Barton,” Lord Kinghorn said, introducing Ransom.

The constable rose from his stool and tapped his thumb against his left breast twice, the same salute William had given Ransom all those years ago, although now he had earned it. His cheeks flushed as he mimicked the gesture.

“Greetings, lad. You’re the one they called the King’s Ransom. I saw you at Gervase’s funeral. You were a stripling then. Look at you now. You’ll be big, like Lord Barton, I’m sure. Not done growing yet.” His bushy eyebrows were nearly as expressive as his eyes, showing his sense of humor. He turned again to Lord Kinghorn. “He’s the one who stopped the ambush earlier today?”

“He is. Stood alone against the front line of knights.”

“Impossible,” chuckled the constable. “When did you knight him?”

“Yesterday. He’s earned it.”

“By the Lady, he has! I wanted to tell you so myself. Well done, boy. We were closing in behind the Brugians, trying to harry them before they could get to you. Tricky devils, they are. Kept feinting and pretending their host was somewhere else. But they thought they were facing the full might of the king’s army, so they tucked tail and retreated. Think we have them surrounded now, but they might try to slip back to Folkestone and escape. Or they may try leaving through Occitania. Can’t be sure which road they’ll take.”

“What would you like us to do?” Lord Bryon asked.

Ransom was keen to hear every word. He still could not believe he’d been invited to visit the command tent. He tried to keep from smiling like a fool.

“How many have you lost in this action?” Rakestraw asked.

“Eight knights. Five more wounded. The rest are pretty battered, but we’re ready to fight.”

“Good. I need fighters right now. Glosstyr is coming, but he won’t arrive for days.”

Ransom’s chest pulsed when he heard that name. Surely Claire wouldn’t be with him, but her father would hear about his exploits on the battlefield. Perhaps he’d tell her. He felt soreness across his body and knew there’d be bruises, but he was ready for another day of fighting.

“Tomorrow, it might be over,” Rakestraw continued. “I want you to keep holding that bridge and blocking Menonval. Don’t let them get past you. Watch for a full retreat. It’s night, but I can’t count on them sitting still when they can move without being seen. No one in camp sleeps tonight. Everyone must be alert and ready with a sword in hand. That means you too, young Ransom. Stand watch with the stars in the sky. Even a bear caught in a trap is dangerous. Be wary.”

“Of course, Dyron,” Lord Kinghorn said. “Is the king coming?”

“Is the king coming?” guffawed the constable. “He’s at Folkestone hoping to catch them there in case they try to escape that way.”

Ransom wondered if he would get a chance to meet the king again before the fighting was over. Although he’d felt bitter toward Devon Argentine after King Gervase’s death, he knew Lord Kinghorn had served him loyally in Westmarch. Judging by his cousin’s character, he thought he might actually come to respect the first Argentine king, even if his loyalty to King Gervase kept him from liking the man.

“Well done, Bryon. You’ve trained them well.”

As they left the tent, Ransom breathed in the fresh air. Although he mourned their losses, he felt good about himself, about the events of the day. In his heart, he hoped he had proven himself enough that Lord Kinghorn might consider taking him into his mesnie. Normally, after a young man was knighted, he was sent back to his father, having earned the status he’d set out to achieve, but Ransom doubted he would be welcomed at the Heath.

“I’m sorry you’ve lost so many men,” Ransom said as they walked side by side back to their horses.

“Thank you,” his cousin replied in a distracted way.

Ransom risked a look at the other man. Lord Kinghorn’s expression was brooding, and he decided not to speak again. They mounted their horses and rode back to the bridge where the other knights of Averanche awaited them.

When they arrived, Lord Kinghorn gave orders that no one was to sleep, which earned some groans and grumbles from the tired men who had fought hard that day. The mayor of Menonval had brought food to eat, so Ransom enjoyed the remainder of what was left. Then he was given his orders to patrol the area during the night, looking for signs of the enemy, but the others felt confident the Brugians had retreated.