Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

I’m at the port town of Atha Kleah, where I was waiting for Da to return from Glosstyr. All the miscreant nobles have fled back to their castles and await his return with dread. Richard Archer is not one to be trifled with, and neither is his daughter. Da is back, but the ill news he brought troubles me. We lost some good knights during this war, including some from Averanche. I heard my childhood friend Ransom was spared, thank the Aos Sí, but his luck has gone sour. Lord Kinghorn wouldn’t take him into service in his mesnie, which makes about as much sense as a wingless duck.

Da said Lord Kinghorn sent Ransom home to the Heath. But when Da passed the Heath on his journey back to Glosstyr, they’d none of them heard from him. They didn’t even know he was a knight, let alone one without a lord to serve. Da wished to offer him a position given all the good reports he heard about his performance in battle, but he’s nowhere to be found. I’m worried about him. A knight without loyalty can quickly turn bad, as we witnessed during that awful civil war.

Da also brought word that we’re shortly to get a visitor from Dundrennan. Duke Wigant’s son was also made a knight. I’m already peevish enough.

—Claire de Murrow

Atha Kleah, Kingdom of Legault





CHAPTER NINE

Scarbrow Armory

The noise of birds chirping in the branches roused Ransom from his slumber. He blinked, his hand still squeezed around the hilt of his dagger, as it had been throughout the night. He hadn’t set up his small tent and instead had bedded down in a grove of black pine. The smell of the crushed needles greeted him pleasantly. His stomach growled with hunger. He’d managed to shoot down a single quail for his supper the night before, and it hadn’t been very filling.

The palfrey Lord Kinghorn had given him was still tethered to the tree, and it snorted at him as he sat up and slid the dagger into a sheath. His sword lay next to him. A net containing his ruined armor sat by the tree, along with the other gear he’d brought with him. Letting out a despondent breath, which came in a little puff of mist, he folded his arms over his knees, still aching from the fight and his wounded feelings.

He’d spent many nights sleeping on the ground as a knight in training. A knight had to be able to build a shelter out of branches, forage the wilderness for food, and learn how to find safe water to slake his thirst. But Ransom had always done these things with James and the others. This was the first night he’d spent all alone since he’d left the palace of Kingfountain after King Gervase’s death.

Shame made his cheeks hot again. He was a landless knight who served no one. He’d been well fed in Averanche, with a training yard and peers he could joke with, but now he had nothing. His sword had nicks in it that needed a whetstone’s kiss. His armor was mutilated. That awful feeling inside him persisted, and he had no idea how to soothe it.

Ransom stood and strapped on his sword belt and shook pine needles from his blanket before rolling it up. The palfrey, which was called Rust, shied from him before he loaded the armor and gear onto its back. The loss of Gemmell still blistered inside him. But he shook his head, unwilling to dwell anymore on his misfortunes, and untied the lead rope. The palfrey followed him out of the wood and back toward the road.

The countryside of Occitania looked just the same as Westmarch. But he dared not wear the badge of Averanche, which he had buried deep in his pocket. He knew from his studies of the various kingdoms that the duchy of Brythonica lay directly to the north. He’d heard rumors that the young duchess was in negotiations to marry King Devon’s third son, Goff, who was several years her junior. The eldest son, named after his father, had married the sister of the Occitanian prince, but they were both still children and lived in their respective courts. The second oldest, Benedict—whom the family called Bennett—had been promised to the daughter of a Vexin nobleman. King Devon was making peace with his most powerful neighbor, while fighting off Atabyrion and Brugia, and restoring order in Legault. The Brugian defeat would give him a respite from one of his enemies, but for how long?

“Come on, nag,” Ransom said, tugging at the lead rope as the palfrey balked out of pure stubbornness. Maybe the Occitanian meadow grass didn’t taste as sweet. Ransom had a few coins in his purse, but it wouldn’t take him very far. He might have to sell the palfrey once he reached his destination. Although the road he traveled would end in Pree, his goal was the town of Chessy on the eastern outskirts.

Sir William wasn’t the only one who’d told him of the tournaments in Chessy. He’d heard boastful talk from Lord Kinghorn’s knights over the years. Ransom didn’t want to hope that Gervase’s knight might still be there. It had been five years, after all, but Chessy was a place he could continue his training and hope to earn enough silver livres to eventually replace his ruined armor and dead steed. He’d ultimately decided against returning to the Heath. If he were to return home, it would not be to beg for money. His mother had provided his first opportunity, which he’d wasted, and he didn’t trust in his brother Marcus’s generosity. After the betrayal of James Wigant, he didn’t know if he could ever trust anyone again.

The words the other boy had spoken still burned. But Ransom buried those feelings and hoped to get his revenge by becoming someone worthy of respect—the kind of knight any lord would want to take into service.