Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

Then Sir William was there, on his feet, sword at the ready. His eyes looked fierce, and his mouth was set in an angry line. “Back to back!” he said. “Hold them off!”

The two knights stood in the middle of the road and struck down everyone who came close. Ransom felt his blood singing in his veins, pushing strength and vitality through him. Two knights attacked him at once, charging over the field of dead men. There were too many obstacles for horses now, so the enemy knights had dismounted and joined the violence on foot. Ransom glanced down the road to see if any knights had broken past the failing barrier to pursue the queen. None. He could still see her galloping away in the distance. But there was no time to get help from the castle. This skirmish would be over long before she arrived there.

Ransom felt a blow against his arm, but his hauberk saved his limb from being cut off. He kicked one opponent in the stomach, then blocked the other’s overhead swing by bringing his own blade up and using both hands to hold it as he would a staff. Ransom returned the blow and struck the enemy on the helm with the pommel, which stunned the man enough that Ransom could kick him down before the next assailant arrived.

The knights continued to surge against them, roaring with frustration. Ransom didn’t see any of Lord Rakestraw’s other men on their feet, although he saw several lying still on the ground, their eyes open in death. He blocked, countered, and repulsed—swing after swing, blow after blow. Anyone who came near him was driven back.

Then a cry of pain sounded from behind him. Whipping around, he saw Sir William drop to one knee, his face blanched with pain as he gripped his chest with one hand. Ransom saw red and would have attacked the man who’d stabbed his friend, but William acted first—driving his blade into his enemy’s armor. Then, in the space of a breath, two more knights converged and struck William down, leaving Ransom alone against the onslaught.

He knew he was about to die, but he was determined to fight on. He roared in outrage and slammed into the two men who’d killed Sir William and drove both of them back. Sensing another attack from behind, he spun around and deflected a blade aimed at his back. His instincts had protected him thus far, but it could not go on forever. The knights would close around him soon.

Then he remembered the hedge. Ransom blocked another blow and rushed to the hedge. He put his back to it, knowing it would enable him to focus only on the knights in front of him. Three came at him at once. The odds were impossible, but his sword arm seemed to move of its own will. He parried and countered with such precision that two of the three staggered back, grimacing from wounds.

There was one knight still astride a horse, and he barked at the others. He was the one in command of the group. He pointed at Ransom, shouting, and several more knights came at him, only to be repelled again. There was no weariness, no hint of pain. He knew he’d been struck several times, but he didn’t feel the blows.

After knocking back his foes for the third time, Ransom stepped back toward the hedge, keeping his rear guarded. He didn’t know why he was still standing. Two dozen enemy knights surrounded him. They looked amazed at his strength, his skill at arms, but they continued to press in on him, emboldened by their commander.

Ransom fought against swords, daggers, and even a wicked-looking battle axe. Yet he defended himself from each assault with cunning and skill. He was surprised that he wasn’t gasping for breath. In the training yards at Averanche or the tournament grounds at Chessy, he’d fought in all manner of combinations, but never had he been so outnumbered. Still the waters rushed in his ears, inside him.

He held his place at the hedge, countering every opponent. Even the wounded returned for more, wave after wave, trying to overwhelm him. But they couldn’t. He felt like a rock being pummeled by the surf. Yet the rock held firm.

“Yield!” shouted the man on horseback, speaking in Occitanian.

“Never!” Ransom shouted back, blocking again, kicking another man down.

The man astride the horse frowned and then nodded.

It was a signal.

Pain exploded in Ransom’s leg.

He saw the tip of a lance puncture his muscle. The blow had come from behind him, and he realized one of the enemies had circled around the hedge and punctured it with a lance.

The gush of the waterfall began to fade, panic writhing in its wake. The pain was excruciating. The attacker yanked the lance back, and Ransom’s muscles quivered as he saw blood running down his own leg. He dropped down to his hands and knees and found himself staring into the vacant gaze of his friend, Sir William, who lay amidst the other corpses. His arms trembled with weariness as he felt the draining sensation he’d experienced during the Brugian campaign. Hollowness. Emptiness. Weakness.

The pain in his leg drove away the fear of death. He hung his head, waiting for the killing blow, one that would take off his head. More orders were given. He saw the armored feet of knights standing around him. As he breathed what he felt was his last breath, he saw the braided charm still around his wrist, droplets of blood smeared on it. He thought of Claire, and the joy of seeing her smile and hearing her laugh after so many years apart. At least they’d been able to walk through the pavilions together, although his heart had longed for so much more.

Disappointment stabbed his heart. He let out his breath and collapsed, his strength utterly gone.

One of the knights asked a question. Even though it was spoken in the guttural tongue, he understood the meaning, though he didn’t know how he knew it.

“What manner of knight is this man? I’ve never seen such a warrior.”

He heard a gruff reply. “I’ve never seen one myself, but I’ve heard of such. He must be Fountain-blessed. Throw his body on one of the horses. Bring him with us.”

The pain was unbearable. Yet Ransom was too exhausted to do anything other than moan when they grabbed him beneath the arms and hoisted him up.