Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

“Is now the time for stories, Dyron?” Lord Archer said, frowning with impatience.

Claire shot a look at her father. “I should like to hear it as well.”

Ransom felt the tension coming from Claire’s father and decided it would be wise to make the tale as short as possible. “I snatched the reins of his destrier, my lord.”

Lord Rakestraw’s eyebrows lowered, and he looked at the duke quizzically. “While he was on the horse?”

“Well . . . yes.”

The duke’s look softened. “That’s not an easy feat, lad.”

Ransom sighed. “I knew he had a horse with armor, a destrier that had a strong reputation. It was part of a war games tournament, and I volunteered for the opposing side. I kept my eyes on him during the fighting, saw the opportunity, and rode in while he was preoccupied. After I took the reins, I led his horse away from the battle. If he’d tried to jump, he would have likely injured himself, so he offered me a ransom. I got the horse I wanted and its armor to boot. That’s the story. I won’t embellish it.”

Rakestraw burst out laughing. “And by the Fountain, he’s an honorable man and upheld his end of the bargain. The Black Prince wouldn’t have allowed him to forsake his oath. Bless you, lad, that was clever. War is trickery and deceit. Ambush and evasion. Always keep your enemy off balance.”

“He’s lucky he didn’t get stabbed by the knight’s lance,” Lord Archer said gruffly.

“I waited until all of his lances were broken,” Ransom said.

Rakestraw guffawed. “See? Good, lad. So you’ve been in the Occitanian tournament circle all this time, then?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Can you speak like one of King Lewis’s knights?”

“Passably.”

Lord Rakestraw had an appraising look in his eye. “Good to know. Lord Archer and I were discussing business at court. There have been some vexing accounts coming from the Vexin. Ha! We’ve much to discuss still.”

That was a veiled invitation for Ransom to withdraw.

“We can go back to visit the merchants, then!” Claire said with bright eyes.

“No, Daughter.” Lord Archer’s tone was determined. “I’d have you stay here.”

“As you command, Da.” Her tone was a bit flippant, and Archer bristled. “But first I must give Ransom his gift.” Claire hurried to one of the ends of the tent, where she knelt by a chest. Her hair bounced down her back as she did so, and the light from the lantern made it shine its rusty hue. Aware of both noblemen gazing at him, he diverted his eyes from her, feeling his neck heat.

Claire returned to him, holding out a braided piece of leather bound with silver on each end. The pattern was Gaultic, and the silver ends had a weave-pattern design on them. He didn’t know what it was at first, but when she brought it to his wrist, he realized it was a bracelet. She struggled to connect the hook to the hasp for a moment, but her eyes met his, and a small smile flashed on her mouth.

“There,” she said, attaching it. “It is my favor. Wear it into battle, and it will bring you the luck of the Aos Sí.”

Ransom couldn’t help but notice the disapproving look on her father’s face.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said. “I’d better go.”

“‘My lady’? To you, I’ll always be Claire. I’ll look for you during the tournament.”

Rakestraw coughed into his fist, giving Ransom a warning look to depart soon. But the man also appeared amused.

“Thank you . . . Claire.”

He felt like his cheeks were burning. The tent was oppressively warm. He bowed to both of the lords and left the tent, feeling the cool night air on his cheeks. Gazing down at the favor hugging his wrist, he remembered the touch of her fingers putting it there. His heart beat wildly in his chest, and he was suddenly dizzy. But he walked out of the camp and toward his tent, grinning the whole way.



“Ransom!”

It was a harsh whisper just outside the tent. It was probably near midnight, but he hadn’t yet fallen asleep, kept awake by the writhing feelings in his chest and stomach. He sat up, reaching for his dagger. The voice wasn’t Anders’s. Nor did it belong to his page, Tanner.

He waited, his pulse quickening.

“Ransom? This is your tent, isn’t it?”

The voice sounded vaguely familiar. Warily, he untied the knots of the tent and parted it, preparing himself for attack from James or his henchmen. Even though it was late, there were still many knights out carousing. His eyes had already adjusted to the dark, and he saw a man on one knee outside the door of his tent, but his face was in the shadows.

“Who are you?” Ransom asked. He hadn’t taken off his hauberk or tunic, just his boots.

“William Chappell. You know me.”

Ransom recognized the name, of course, having thought of William frequently over the years. The voice was familiar, but it had been seven years.

“How did you find me?” Ransom asked with doubt.

“Lady Claire revealed it. I serve Lord Dyron Rakestraw. I’m part of his mesnie. He wants to speak with you.”

Ransom couldn’t believe it. He parted the opening wider, eager for a better look at his old friend, and Sir William stood, wearing a hauberk, arm guards, and a sword strapped to his waist. In the moonlight now, his face was recognizable, although much older, more rugged.

“I’m coming,” Ransom said, rising. He quickly tugged on his boots, buckled his own sword on, and ran his hand over the braided bracelet to be sure it was still there.

He ducked out of the tent. As he rose to his full height, Sir William stepped back. “You’re not a boy any longer. Rakestraw said you were as big as a bear. He wasn’t far off.”

Ransom smiled in disbelief. “I came to Chessy looking for you.”

“When?”

“Two years ago. You’d said this was where you’d go.”