Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

“It’s a fine destrier,” Sir William said, stroking the beast while Ransom saddled him. “What’s his name?”

“Manhault,” Ransom answered. He checked and double-checked the girth straps and grabbed one of the ash lances that leaned against his tent pole and deposited it into the quiver attached to the saddle. He checked his belongings and packed his coin purse. Although the bag was hefty and full of silver, he had some more coin stored in a lockbox with Anders Scarbrow in his tent. He had the urge to tell the blacksmith about the sudden change in his fortunes, but he’d promised not to reveal anything.

He checked his gear once more, earning a laugh from Sir William.

“We’re not riding far, Ransom. Everything you own will be brought to Tatton Grange, I promise you.”

Ransom shrugged and mounted his destrier. Sir William, who’d walked his horse to Ransom’s tent, did the same. As they directed their mounts toward the road, Ransom’s gaze shot down to the braided cord on his wrist, the silver tips gleaming in the morning light. How he wished he could talk to Claire, or at least send her a message. But he couldn’t risk doing something that might unintentionally reveal them. He was a sworn man now, a knight who served the constable of Westmarch, the largest and most powerful duchy in Ceredigion. A giddy feeling danced up his spine.

They dodged through the camps as the knights, many suffering from severe headaches by the looks on their faces, rose to prepare for the first day of the tournament. Ransom had hoped to compete in it, to win some money and hopefully find a lord to serve. He’d never expected his fate to change so abruptly, and before the competition even started.

When they reached the road, which was thronged with carts from Pree packed with melons, pies, cooked skewers of meat, and other dishes, he spied Lord Rakestraw already mounted with several other knights. He saw the queen, disguised in a cloak and a riding dress, sitting sidesaddle as the ladies did. A scarf covered part of her face, but it was cold enough to warrant it. Her horse was an impressive animal, but it didn’t stand out as anything out of the ordinary. Many lords rode to the lists with their wives or daughters with them.

As they approached the others, Lord Rakestraw nodded to both of them to lead the way, and they moved to the head of the group. Their pace was slowed by the flood of those trying to reach Chessy, but by midmorning the tidewaters of commerce had ebbed, and they were able to increase their pace significantly. Ransom knew the road to Pree very well, and while they wouldn’t be stopping in the city, it was the most direct way to get to the Vexin.

At midday they halted to eat and to rest the horses, but they were soon riding again. Ransom could hear the war horses behind them, the pounding of the hooves urging him and William to ride ever faster to keep ahead of the queen. He sensed she was setting the pace deliberately, pushing the beasts past their normal limits. But her steed handled it effortlessly, clearly accustomed to the punishing pace. They passed Pree from the north, but it was too far away to see, and crossed the river on a bridge leading north to Mainz. Ransom used his Occitanian to banter with the bridge keepers, who wore the black of the prince’s guard.

They rode past Mainz before sunset, skirting the city completely. The road they took was little used, and there was no one to remark on their presence save a few peasants working the land. After dark, they settled in a grove of trees and didn’t make a fire. Lord Dyron sat on a fallen log and drank from his leather flask, then wiped his mouth on his arm.

“We’ve made good time today, lads,” he said in his gruff voice. “How far to Auxaunce, Your Highness?”

“The village of Usson is not far from here,” she said. “We’ll be at Auxaunce after midday tomorrow.”

“Are we in your duchy, Your Highness?” asked Sir William.

“We are in its southern borders, yes. But it is still not safe. The lords of DeVaux Valley are the ones causing trouble, and their lands are just to the west.”

Rakestraw turned to Ransom. “Her Majesty didn’t take a ship because of the recent trouble with Atabyrion. There are pirates watching the coasts, and any sizable armada would have been seen and questioned. The tournament in Chessy provided us with a good opportunity to slip through by land.”

An owl hooted in the night, making many of the knights flinch and look in its direction. Ransom had hunted and camped too many times to take notice of it, and the queen didn’t react either. When it became too dark to see, they all slept in their cloaks in a circle around the queen. The men took turns as guards during the night.

When it was Ransom’s and William’s turn to stand guard, they walked away from the camp, patrolling the perimeter, only hearing the noises of the night.

“Do you like serving Lord Dyron?” Ransom asked.

“Aye. He’s a good man. He’s dedicated to the king. I’ve never heard him complain about him at all.”

“Do you think King Devon will make him the Duke of Westmarch to reward his loyalty?”

Sir William sniffed. “I doubt it. The king has too many sons. Unlike your father, he plans to bestow each of them with something. I think he’ll give Westmarch to his eldest, Prince Devon. Benedict will get the Vexin. Goff will become the Duke of Brythonica. The youngest, Jon-Landon, is too young to rule, but something will be done for him.”

“Where is the crown prince now?”

“Dundrennan,” came the answer. “Duke Wigant’s household. Having him up there has helped with the Atabyrion skirmishes, I think. They’re more hesitant to make trouble. And even though Benedict is fourteen, he’s a warrior already. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s ruling the Vexin within the year. After his mother tames it first.” He chuckled softly. “He pleaded to come with us, or so they said. But the king wouldn’t risk his wife and his son on such a perilous journey.”