Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

Ransom did his night sentry duty without complaint, riding Gemmell at a leisurely pace. The stars shifted in their nightly dance, and the moon finally rose. With his visor up, Ransom smelled the night air, feeling a little chilled beneath the layers of armor, but it wasn’t cold enough to produce mist from his mouth when he breathed.

After a time, weariness started to settle on Ransom, who had not rested since the battle earlier. He took the side road and passed Sir Gordon, who was on his way back from his rounds. They nodded to each other in passing. Farther down the road, Ransom saw the barn he’d hidden in earlier. He decided to give his steed a little rest and thought the barn might be a good place to conceal himself again and watch from the window. The farmer and his family still hadn’t returned and probably wouldn’t until the threat had passed. As Ransom rode up, he saw the scuff marks in the ground where the battle had raged. A few broken links of mail were scattered here and there. The bodies had been dragged away by the townspeople earlier.

Ransom leaned forward in the saddle, resting his arms on Gemmell’s neck. The sky to the east was just beginning to brighten, although dawn was still a ways off. Ransom almost dismounted and walked Gemmell the rest of the way to the barn, but he thought that might not be a good idea. He guided his rouncy to the dark void of the open doors and smelled the straw.

As the shadow of the barn fell on him, he breathed in again.

And smelled sweat.

A prickle of warning went down his spine. He reached for the hilt of his sword. But before he’d drawn it from the scabbard, he saw movement in the shadows as men on foot rushed him. A man with a pole and hook appeared at his side, and he felt the snag of its tip pierce his shoulder guard, gripping the metal chain links beneath it. They swarmed Ransom, trying to get him off his horse.

One of them brandished a knife.





Word has arrived that the conflict ended, and abruptly too, I should say. I don’t think poncy Lord Dougal had time to return to his little stone hut before a courier from Da arrived with word that he was on his way back from Glosstyr. King Devon’s forces have already routed his enemies in Westmarch, it seems. Mayhap it was a test of the Argentine king, to see if he would defend his lands with iron or feather. The answer was iron. Apparently the knights of Averanche did some noble feats and withstood the full brunt of the Brugian army alone. So everyone is returning to their castles. Many knights from the Brugian order of St. Felix will be ransomed for a hefty sum, making the defeat all the more ignominious. I love that word. “Ignominious.” I found that one in an ancient record on the shelves in Kingfountain. I wish knights were trained in matching wits as much as they’re trained in matching swords.

Another courier just arrived bearing sad news. Lord Barton is dead. When first I saw the note, I dreaded it was news of his son, Ransom. But it was about the sire, not the son. He died in an accident while trying to leave his castle to join the king’s war. Ransom’s brother is now the master of the Heath. Poor Ransom. Maybe I will send him a letter. Would that I could do more to ease his pain.

—Claire de Murrow

Connaught Castle, Kingdom of Legault

La Victoire (an Occitanian saying)





CHAPTER EIGHT

Broken Knight

The soldier with the knife tried to jam the blade into Ransom’s thigh, but it deflected off his armor. He tried again, his face a mess of rage and hatred, and this time the blade slid beneath the groove of armor but was stopped by the chain leggings beneath.

Ransom knew he was in serious trouble. The man with the pole and hook yanked hard, and Ransom had to grip the saddle horn to keep from toppling backward off Gemmell. His horse snorted and flailed his hooves, knocking back a man who grasped at his reins.

Squeezing his knees, Ransom tried to direct his horse to turn in a circle. He had to turn Gemmell around to the exit. He had to get out.

A spear struck his side, again deflected by his armor. He brought the pommel of his sword down, and it broke the haft of the spear before it could shove him off his steed. Gemmell thrashed, buffeting a man and knocking him down. Ransom could feel no rush of water as had happened in his previous battles. The sensation of being in command of himself, of his weapons, was gone. He felt hollow inside, an empty cauldron.

He was truly alone, surrounded by enemies.

He heard some of the men grunt in the Brugian tongue. The only word he could make out was kill. Ransom thrust down with his bastard sword, killing a man who stood too close, but the man with the hook was persistent. He yanked even harder, and Ransom felt his armor twisting, bending, exposing his back to the blows of his enemies. A battle axe struck his side. He felt pain in his ribs and worried the blade of the axe had pierced his armor.

This would end badly for him. He still fought to turn Gemmell full circle, and his field of vision was obscured by the darkness of the shadowed entrance to the barn. Another yank on his armor by the accursed hook rent it further. He felt the night air seep through the leather and links, which were now punctured and open.