Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

“What if the mother starts wailing from the battlements? I wouldn’t put it past Barton to arrange for something like that.”

Gervase snorted. “I suppose he might. The blackguard.”

“He’s cunning. And he’s testing you. They’re all testing you.”

Gervase looked away, feeling his courage wilt. How could he do this thing? A child should not be held accountable for the sins of his father. And yet the bonds of family were the strongest inducement at his disposal. Money could be replaced. Lands could be conquered. But a son . . . a son couldn’t be raised from the dead. Only in the fables of the Fountain did things like that ever happen.

The pallet and blankets had been laid out, and Gervase was weary enough he thought he might actually fall asleep after not sleeping the night before. This game of warfare vexed him.

“Tell me now, my lord. Are you going to go through with it?”

“I will, I swear on the Lady.” He turned and faced Gilbert. “On the morrow, if Barton doesn’t open the gate and surrender the castle, I’ll hang his son and then send the body back to the mother by trebuchet.” He clenched his hands into fists. “Tell him what I said, Gilbert. Tell him he dare not test my patience any further.”

Gilbert nodded coolly. “I will.”

Before the candle burned halfway out, before the pit-roasted capon on his plate was consumed, before Gervase could even finish his first cup of wine, the reply came back.

Barton would not yield the castle.

And so Gervase could not sleep that night either. With a cloak shrouding his body, the King of Ceredigion walked through the camp, trailed at a distance by his most trusted knights. Soldiers watched the wooden pickets in case Barton tried a night attack. Gervase hoped that he would. Such an action would bring the fight where it belonged: between him and Lord Barton. But after hours and hours of waiting, the sun began to stir behind the clouds, and the end of night approached. Gervase hadn’t even attempted to sleep, and his eyes felt chalky with grit and irritated from the campfire smoke.

Men roused from slumber, the camp beginning to churn with life. Fresh logs were tossed onto fires, and men rubbed their hands over the leaping flames. Gervase found himself staring at the tent where his hostage still slept, but as the shadows were driven away by the sun, his gaze shifted to the gallows, fashioned from one of the trebuchets. A rope hung from it with a noose at the end. A barrel to stand on was positioned beneath it on the turf, both wet with morning dew.

Everything seemed like a dream. No, it was a nightmare. Gervase refused an offering of bread to break his fast and took up his position by the gallows. And then there was young Marshall Barton, smiling and holding the hand of Lord Gilbert, who led him toward the king. When Marshall saw Gervase, his smile brightened, his expression a marked contrast to the malice on his companion’s face.

“Do I get to go home to Papa today?” the child asked innocently.

Gervase’s throat clenched. He stared at the boy, his brown hair and hazel eyes. “Not today, lad,” said the king, trying to wrestle the words out.

“But that’s his castle,” young Marshall said, pointing.

“Aye, it is. I just wanted to get a better view of it.”

“It is a pretty castle,” said the boy. “But it’s not as pretty as Kingfountain.”

It felt like one of the hot coals from the fire lay sizzling in Gervase’s chest. It was painful, a slow torture of agony. “Do you miss Kingfountain?”

“Aye. Can we go back soon?”

He saw a soldier wipe away a tear, turning his face from the scene. Gilbert’s eyes blazed with fury. His expression showed he thought Gervase was daft for talking to the boy before killing him. He looked determined to march him up to the barrel and do the deed himself. But no, there was a soldier who’d been paid to do the deed already standing by the barrel, holding the noose in his hands, which hid it from the boy’s sight. The man looked greensick but determined.

Gervase’s stomach clenched. Was he going to be sick?

“I want you to stand on that barrel,” said Lord Gilbert, releasing the boy’s hand and putting his own on the boy’s shoulder instead. “You’ll see your father’s castle better.”

“Oh,” said the boy and started walking toward it.

Gervase thought he would choke. He gazed at the battlement walls, clearly visible in the morning haze. And yes, he saw soldiers standing there as silent witnesses. No sound of wailing had begun. Did Barton’s wife know what was to happen? The coward probably hadn’t told her anything. He would likely lie and say he’d been given no warning.

Someone stifled a groan. The whole camp was as quiet as death. As the boy reached the barrel, he was lifted up by his executioner. The boy stood on tiptoe, one hand above his eyes to help him see better.

Gervase stared, his throat dry and clenched. Then he saw one of his knights, the youngest of the mesnie, Sir William Chappell, turn away from the scene. He was so young he still had a few freckles across the bridge of his nose. The knight pretended to cough to stifle his tears.

Gervase looked back at the barrel and watched the hangman put the noose around the boy’s neck. Marshall shifted enough to glance at the king. He looked confused, and there was a little spark of worry in his eyes.

Lord Gilbert nodded to the hangman to kick the barrel.

“Stop,” Gervase said, marching forward suddenly, his heart sizzling with unbearable pain. “Stop, or you’ll hang next!”

The hangman backed away from the barrel, eyes wide with surprise and mouth grinning with relief.

Lord Gilbert whirled on him, eyes blazing. “If you do this, you’ll lose. We all will! Think on what we’ve already lost!” For an instant, the king thought Lord Gilbert might defy him and kick the barrel himself.