Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

The enemy knights had thrown Ransom’s body across the back of a rouncy, securing him there with rope. He blacked out from the pain for a while until the harsh riding finally roused him again. The pressure against his chest from the bouncing was bad enough, but his leg was still bleeding, robbing his strength. None had tended to his wound in their haste to leave the scene of death.

They rode back the way they’d come, not following the queen. He didn’t know why, but he reasoned that the desire to escape and survive had overpowered their need to capture the queen. Besides which, she’d gotten far enough ahead it was unlikely they’d catch up to her. The jolting blows against the hard saddle made him grunt and wish for the misery to end. All of the other knights had died. In his mind, he saw Dyron Rakestraw’s death over and over again. Who would have risked such a thing? Surely the King of Ceredigion would be avenged of his foes, but why not seek a ransom from such a powerful lord? It was madness.

They rode for several leagues before turning onto another lane. They were heading into the territory of DeVaux, Ransom surmised. When they stopped, it was not at a manor or a castle but in a secluded wood. The riders dismounted and began arguing worriedly among themselves. Their leader dismounted as well. He looked over at Ransom, who was still trussed to the saddle, and gave a command. This time, Ransom could not understand the guttural language. Two of the knights approached, released his bindings, and hefted him off the horse before dumping him to the ground. He was left where he’d fallen.

Ransom looked down at his wounded leg and saw the blood soaking his pants. He’d seen vicious wounds before but never on his own body. He turned his face away, trying not to pass out. Some of the knights drank from flasks. None offered him anything. His own thirst was difficult to bear. They spoke and debated one with another before the leader sauntered over to Ransom.

“What languages do you speak?” asked the man warily in Occitanian.

“I understand you,” Ransom answered.

“Are you Occitanian, then?”

Ransom shook his head no.

“Ceredigic?”

Ransom nodded.

The man pursed his lips and nodded, looking intrigued by his captive. “Was that Lord Rakestraw we killed? He was protecting your queen?”

“Yes,” Ransom said. “Why did you kill him?”

The man laughed. “It wasn’t my intention to kill the constable! By the Fountain, no! I thought he’d surrender. That we’d get a fair ransom for Emiloh. But she escaped, your fellows are all dead, I lost a goodly number of knights, and now if I’m not careful, that will be my fate as well.” He rubbed his mouth.

“Who are you?” Ransom asked.

“You don’t know me?”

“I’ve never been to the Vexin before.”

“I am Lord DeVaux. And you are my prisoner. What’s your name?”

“Ransom Barton.”

DeVaux shrugged. “That name means nothing to me. I thought you might be one of the Black Prince’s men. I’ve heard one of his knights is Fountain-blessed. You fought bravely today. Such skill. It’s commendable. But I won’t let you go. Not without a ransom. A ransom for Ransom.” He chuckled. “Will anyone pay for you, I wonder?”

Ransom didn’t know. He already hated this man. His mind was whirring again, his thoughts tangled into knots.

Fountain-blessed. They think I’m Fountain-blessed.

“I’m wounded.”

DeVaux shrugged. “So you are. Tend to yourself. You spilled enough of our blood—it’s only proper you should lose some too. You ride with us, for we are outlaws now. We must keep out of reach of your king.”

Ransom grimaced. “He’s your king as well.”

DeVaux scoffed. “I didn’t choose him.”





It was the blacksmith who told me. Ransom’s tent and his gear and armor were collected by men in the employ of the lord constable of Westmarch. He was not at the tournament because he left with Rakestraw’s men. I’m trying not to think of that boy as a rotten dung beetle right now for leaving without a word. I gave him my favor, and he vanished without a trace. The tournament was flawless—if you are Occitanian. One of Prince Estian’s knights won the day and received the high glory and honor of the prince. Of the three champions crowned with rose garlands, all three were from the duchies of this land. And many a knight from Ceredigion will be carried home on a litter while nursing broken ribs, arms, and legs.

Da says we are leaving tomorrow. He will send me back to Glosstyr to handle his affairs there, and he will return through Brythonica to Legault as originally planned. I hope to see Ransom before I go, but no one knows where Lord Rakestraw ran off to with his knights. I feel barmy for having worried so much these last few days. I’d hoped to persuade father to take Ransom into his mesnie, but the duchy of Westmarch has far more significance than that of Glosstyr. At least I know where he is now. That is a relief.

—Claire de Murrow

Chessy Field

(in a tent)





CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Fever Dreams

As soon as Ransom loosened the blood-soaked bandage, he saw fresh wetness well up from the gaping wound. He leaned back against the tree, panting against the pain. DeVaux’s men had offered no assistance at all, and he’d had to use his teeth to bite through his tunic and rip some strips of fabric to bind his own injury. They would not even trust him with a small dagger.