Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

It has been almost two years since I last wrote. It doesn’t feel like it, until I consider all that’s happened. Da is more respected now in Legault. He travels to Atha Kleah to render justice, and his decisions are upheld. It wasn’t long ago they’d argue every point, just to spite him, but he’s a fair leader, and over time, they’ve realized he doesn’t just rule in favor of the lords of Ceredigion.

I’ve relished riding through our lands, getting to know the villagers and their needs. There are barrow mounds and sacred sites throughout Legault. The history is rich with so many legends of the Aos Sí and the magical artifacts they made. I met an aging woman in the village of Knockcroggery who said she’d seen, in her youth, a knight with a scabbard that had the raven sigil on it. The knight could not be killed in combat because of it. I have spent many a moonlit night waiting at a pond to see if the Aos Sí would emerge and dance at midnight. Sadly, I’ve not seen any. But I long to.

Da thinks I should choose a husband soon, which is probably why I’m writing this from the palace of Ploemeur in Brythonica presently. We have a writ of safe conduct from the duchess for our journey to Pree to attend a tournament at a field called Chessy. Every kingdom is sending their best knights to compete. There will be much clashing of swords, shattering of lances, and likely dozens of bearded men itching to marry an heiress. I’ve never been to Pree before, so I’m excited to see the pinnacle of refinement, grace, and skill at arms. Da won’t be fighting, but we’ve enough knights in our company who will take to the fields. Everyone says the strongest knights are from Occitania. Yet I wonder who else may be there?

—Claire de Murrow

Ploemeur, Duchy of Brythonica





CHAPTER TEN

Warring Legends

Ransom had never seen so many kingdoms represented on a single field before. The smart ones had begun arriving a month before the tournament, and the crowds grew worse each day. Disputes arose between rival factions, but King Lewis had provided enough guards, led by the Black Prince, his son, to quell open conflict. Prince Estian was called the Black Prince because he wore a black tabard with a silver fleur-de-lis badge, and all his knights and men-at-arms wore the same. They were quick to root out troublemakers and send them away with a writ of safe conduct lasting only one day. Ransom had seen several knights scurry away after receiving such a reprimand.

With the growing throngs, merchants from Pree were making a fortune selling food, pavilions, horses, weapons, and little remembrances they called souvenirs. After having spent two years in Chessy, Ransom was fluent in Occitanian and passed as a local, which meant he was able to purchase things at lower prices. He was eager for the tournament. Although he’d fought in many during his time in Chessy, this would be the first to bring in many of the noble houses of Ceredigion. He kept an eye out for standards he recognized, hoping to see Lord Kinghorn again, although his goal was to prove himself enough to be offered a position with one of the dukes of the realm—other than Duke Wigant, of course. His resentment against James had festered since their last encounter. But the time had come to return home. While he still didn’t like Devon Argentine, he respected the stability he’d brought to the realm in only a few years. Judging by the stories he’d heard, the Argentine king was better at putting a stop to the internal squabbling than Gervase had ever been, and there was no denying he was also more successful at keeping enemies at bay.

Ransom was no longer a penniless knight. His earnings from the competitions had more than paid for the suit of Scarbrow armor that Anders had made for him. And he had his own destrier now, more valuable than a rouncy. He hadn’t paid for it either. He’d won it from a noble from the Vexin, who’d lost to Ransom in a tournament. Ransom had his own tent, could afford the labor of a page, who also worked with another knight, and he was considered by many as a possible contender for winning one of the three rewards at the tournament. At least enough for people to wager on him with long odds.

The heat of the day had ended, and dusk began to fall. Fire pits made of iron were being lit to ward off the coming chill as well as to provide light. The smell of roasting meat and delicious Occitanian treats wafted in the air, stirring hunger in his nervous stomach. Ladies mingled with the knights, and the bright feminine laughter was a contrast to the times before, when the camp had mostly been occupied by warriors. The Black Prince allowed no immorality in Chessy or within the streets of Pree. Women who came to ply another trade were dismissed as quickly as knights who could not follow the rules.

“Sir Ransom!” called the voice of Tanner, his young page.

He turned, seeing the lad swerving through the crowd to catch up with him. The boy was only twelve, but he seemed younger and smaller than Ransom remembered being at that age.

“What is it?” Ransom asked as the boy caught up with him.

“Lord Kinghorn of Averanche has arrived! He came with Constable Rakestraw.”

“Brilliant,” Ransom replied. “I wonder if they sent anyone to secure space for them. People are starting to encamp on the road now.”

“All the inns leading up to Pree are full,” Tanner said. “The innkeepers are overflowing with silver livres right now.”

“That they are. Find out where they’re staying. I’d like to know.”

“Of course! I’ll do my best.”

“Good lad,” Ransom said, tousling the boy’s hair. He watched the boy run off, dodging and weaving through the crowd again. When he turned around to continue his journey, he nearly collided with a pretty nobleman’s daughter, who looked at him with a devilish smile.

“Pardon, my lady,” Ransom said, bowing slightly and stepping out of her way.

Her smile grew brighter. She didn’t look offended in the least, nor did she seek to pass. A knight stood next to her, an escort no doubt, who screwed up his face and gave Ransom a wary look.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” she said, and the sound of her voice gave her away. It was a Gaultic accent, one he hadn’t heard in seven years.

In the dusk, he’d assumed her hair was brown, but now that he looked closer, the glow of the firelight showed its special tint.