Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

Sweat and chills rippled through his body. His mind felt sluggish and preoccupied with worries of death. Even with the tight covering, the wound hadn’t closed, and it bled as freely as ever. He puffed out his breath, adjusting his seat despite the agony, and tore several more strips of fabric from his tunic. DeVaux’s men watched him with dark looks. He’d get no help there.

Ransom was determined to live. The thought burned in his skull alongside the growing fever. He yanked and ripped at the fabric until his strength failed him, and he slumped back against the tree to rest, breathing heavily. Then he worked at it again, until he had a long enough piece to wrap around the injury. His fingers looked grotesque with the smears of dirt and blood. He clenched his teeth against the pain as he wrapped the strip above his wound and knotted it. Then he grabbed a stick and used it to tighten the fabric until it bit into his skin. The agony was excruciating. His gasps were desperate.

DeVaux sauntered up to him, his eyes bleary from their arduous ride through the countryside. “Get up. We have to keep moving.”

Ransom couldn’t have spoken if he’d wanted to. Ignoring DeVaux, he wrapped another piece of torn cloth around the stick to hold it in place. The self-inflicted torture nearly made him black out.

“Get up! If you are truly Fountain-blessed, you may live. If not, there’s nothing that will save you. That wound will undoubtedly fester, and you’ll be dead before long. Or you’ll have a stump and be a cripple all your life. We’re going. Now.”

Ransom struggled to rise, pushing with his good leg and using the tree to pull himself up. The bark scraped his hands, leaving splinters, which began to itch. Gobs of sticky sap clung to him. He glared at Lord DeVaux, but he said nothing. If he’d had a dagger, he would have been tempted to use his last burst of energy to attack his captor and kill him.

But he had no weapon—he had nothing but the will to live. So he hobbled to the horse and stepped onto a fallen log to mount it. His vision blurred once he was in the saddle, but he gripped the saddle horn, willing himself to stay upright. If he fell off, he knew they would leave him to die in the woods.

Another knight took the reins, and off they went again. Ransom didn’t have the mental faculties to guide a horse anyway, and he had no idea where they were or where they were going. They’d slept out of doors the previous night, but he’d overheard DeVaux saying they were bound for a castle to seek refuge and supplies. Ransom slumped against the horse, trying to stifle the moans that forced their way from his mouth. His leg throbbed mercilessly.

They rode through forests, through valleys. Sometimes he’d see little farm huts. The knights would stop and pillage food before riding on. He never saw evidence of the farmers or their families. Wisely, they scurried away when armed knights came into view.

DeVaux’s words throbbed in the painful mess inside Ransom’s mind. He had called Ransom Fountain-blessed. But that was not how he felt. If anything, he’d been cursed by the Fountain. When he was young, he had hoped to serve King Gervase, but the king’s untimely death had prevented it. Then he’d gone to Averanche to serve Lord Kinghorn, and that dream had been shattered as well. Finally, he’d thought his luck had turned around—he’d seen Claire again and been given a chance to serve Lord Rakestraw, but his lord had been pierced through with a lance. If they had ridden with armor, many if not most of the knights would have survived the confrontation with DeVaux’s men. The ruse had not been worth it.

He felt his body leaning and grasped the mane of the horse with his left hand, gripping hard, trying to keep himself in the saddle. Memories of the fight rushed through his mind unbidden. He was still amazed he had outlasted all the other knights. He heard a buzzing noise in his ears, but this was not the tranquil noise of the waterfalls at the palace of Kingfountain. No, this was an angry buzzing sound, like hornets. The idea of slumping out of the saddle and landing on the scrub felt tempting to him. How long before they’d notice? How long until he died?

Ransom pulled himself back up, fighting the urge to destroy himself. He would survive this nightmare. He would be free again.

The growing fever gave him nonsensical thoughts. He imagined Claire walking through the fields of Chessy arm in arm with James. “Poor Ransom,” she said with a pitying smile. “We were friends as children. Only friends.”

James nodded and smiled, all sympathy and fine wishes, but as soon as Claire looked away, the look in his eyes shifted to that of a wolf hunting its prey. Ransom wanted to scream in warning. He tried to run, to pull Claire away from him, but his leg couldn’t support his weight, and he fell. Blood seeped from the wound. So much blood. He was dying, drop by drop.

No! I must tell her what happened. I have to warn her.

“How long has he been like this?”

A woman’s voice.

“Two days now. He’s dying.”

DeVaux’s voice.

Someone touched his leg, and he screamed. Pain was all he felt and knew.

“I’ll call for a barber. Let the wound be treated.”

It was the woman’s voice again.

“No! No one leaves this castle. If any of your servants slip away, you’ll regret it, my lady. If he dies, he dies. But I swear the lad is Fountain-blessed. A lance wound won’t kill him. You’ll see. He’ll recover.”

“Let me provide bandages at least.”

“No! Give him broth to drink and a little bread. Tend to my wounded knights instead. They suffer as much as he does. He’s cost me a lot of men. I’ll see him ransomed, or I’ll throw his corpse in a ditch. Either way suits me fine, but I suspect he’ll live. The Fountain-blessed do not go down so easily. Do not trifle with me, my lady, while your kin is at Chessy field.”

“You would break the oath of hospitality?” she asked him.

Who was she? Where were they?

Ransom realized he was lying on a pallet filled with old straw. Was this another dream conjured by his feverish mind? He twitched. From the throbbing burn, it felt like he’d already lost his leg.

“Who gives a carp about that?” DeVaux snorted. “I killed the constable! The king will come after me himself. None of the niceties of Virtus apply to me anymore, my lady. You’d best remember that.”