Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

Ransom gaped at her. It was Claire.

“I heard someone cry out your name!” she said. “And here you are!” She wore an elegantly embroidered cape over a white muslin gown with a belted girdle, arm bands, and a thin braided rope beneath her bosom. The sleeves were tight down to her wrists, with more fabric gathered higher up on her arms, slit wide so it trailed like a train. The cape was red and featured intricate needlework. He took all of her in, blinking quickly, before realizing this wasn’t the little girl who had teased him playfully at Kingfountain when they were children. She had grown up.

She was examining him too, looking at his face, at the cloth tabard he wore over his chain hauberk. At the sword and dagger strapped to his hip.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” he stammered, realizing he was gawking.

“Of course it is, you fool eejit,” she said, laughing. “Look at you! I’m not sure I would have recognized you if the lad hadn’t called you by name. Is this . . . is this a beard?” She lifted her hand as if she’d touch his face, before dropping it suddenly.

Ransom hadn’t been to the barber yet, but had planned to, knowing the Occitanians judged those from Ceredigion harshly because of their beards, considering them barbaric and unkempt.

“I was going to see the barber soon,” Ransom said, feeling self-conscious.

“Don’t. I like it,” she said. “Where have you been all these years?”

“I’ve been . . . well . . . what do you mean?”

She sighed with exasperation. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“In the tournament camp?” he said. “How did you know I was—”

“Stop. You’re not understanding me. Where have you been since you left Averanche? No one knew where you’d gone. Not even your family at the Heath. You look so sunburnt and sturdy now.”

Ransom was taken aback. “You . . . you looked for me after Lord Kinghorn dismissed me?” Although he’d thought of Claire often over the years, he hadn’t expected the same would be true of her—or at least not that she would have gone out of her way to look for him.

“Of course! Da wanted to take you in. You could have been at Connaught castle all this time.”

“Connaught castle?”

“You keep repeating everything I’m saying. Answer me before I clout you! Where have you been?”

“Here, at Chessy.”

Her brow wrinkled with disbelief. “You wanted to be a . . . a tournament knight?” Her look of interest was quickly turning to one of disappointment.

“My lady,” said her escort with a subtle cough. “We should return to your father.”

Ransom felt a spasm of dread. He could not stand for her to misjudge him. “That’s not why I came,” he said.

“Why did you come? I heard you were quite brave when the Brugians attacked Westmarch. Why did Lord Kinghorn dismiss you?”

“My lady,” pressed the knight.

She turned and gave him a displeased look. “Quiet, Sir Anselm. Your interruptions are rude.”

Ransom stifled an involuntary chuckle.

Claire looked him in the eye. “Tell me.”

“During the war, I was . . . ambushed by fleeing soldiers who’d hidden in a barn. I was foolish. It was dark. I shouldn’t have gone in there without suspecting a trap.”

“They attacked you?”

“They killed my horse.”

“That rouncy you used to ride with the king? What was his name . . . oh, Gemmell!”

Even now hearing the name hurt. He nodded, impressed by her sharp memory.

Her disappointment turned to hurt. “I’m so sorry, Ransom. Truly.” He loved hearing the sound of her voice, the accent so familiar. He’d not dared to hope he would see her during the tournament, let alone find her wandering in the crowd. And she’d been looking for him? She’d wanted to help him all along?

“I’m doing better now,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’ve worked with a blacksmith and have my own armor again. And a destrier.”

“You worked as a blacksmith. I can see that. A new suit of armor is costly. So is a horse like that.”

“I won the horse,” Ransom said.

“A fine accomplishment.” But he could tell she didn’t care as much about his recent exploits as she did about their past friendship. “Why didn’t you seek me out, Ransom? I could have helped you.”

He felt like a fool. Like an “eejit.” How he missed hearing her say that word. He couldn’t tell her that his pride wouldn’t have allowed it, or that it hadn’t occurred to him anyone would want to help him after Lord Kinghorn’s dismissal and James’s callow treatment. “I . . . I . . . don’t know.”

Her smile was slightly mocking. “Maybe you took too many blows to the head. Well, we’ve just arrived, and I long to see what Chessy has to offer. Will you show me around?”

“Lady Claire,” growled Sir Anselm.

She grabbed Ransom’s arm. “Go find Father and tell him I’ll return shortly.”

“My lady, he will be most displeased.”

“Whatever for? I am in the company of a knight, and the Black Prince’s henchmen are everywhere. I’ll return shortly, I promise. He’s a dear friend, Sir Anselm. Now go.”

It wasn’t a coaxing request. It was an order.

Sir Anselm clenched his jaw and his fists and stormed away.



It felt like being in a fever dream. Ransom and Lady Claire de Murrow were walking arm in arm through the crowds of Chessy, talking as if they’d never been apart. She was curious about everything, pointing to the different stalls selling Occitanian jewelry, skewers of meat, and confections of the finest cooks in the country.

“Have you ever tried penuche?” he asked her as they approached his favorite candymaker.

“What is that, a dreaded disease? No, I’ve never heard of it,” she answered with a twinkle in her eye. Ransom took her to his favorite confectionary and bought two of the sugary squares from the cook, who knew Ransom on sight.

“Ah, Sir Ransom, you’ve brought a noble lady with you this evening! How enchanting!”