Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

She gave him a wary look. “Mother keeps asking, but I don’t dare tell her.”

“Thankfully, I am not your mother,” Ransom quipped.

“Sir Kace,” she said with a sigh, resting her head on her arms while leaning against the barrier. “He’s always been so kind to me. So thoughtful. But he’s bashful by nature. He would never have dared to ask Father for my hand.”

“You are young still,” Ransom said. “Give him time.”

“What about you?” She turned, grinning at him. “Is there a fair lady who has won your heart?”

Ransom looked down at his braided bracelet. “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps? This sounds interesting. What is her name? Is she Occitanian?”

“No.”

Her eyes dancing, she tugged on his arm. “Tell me.”

As he looked at his sister, it struck him that she was only a few years older than the age Claire had been when they’d left Kingfountain. Part of him wanted to reveal his heart to her, but he didn’t want to sound like a fool.

He knew Claire de Murrow was not for the likes of him.



Before arriving at the palace, Ransom had stopped in one of the villages on the outskirts and paid a blacksmith to help him don his armor. He didn’t wear his helmet because he wanted to feast on the sights and smells of the palace city.

As he rode into Kingfountain—one hand loosely holding the reins, the other resting on the pommel of the sword he’d gotten from the armory in Tatton Grange—many vendors flocked to his horse. Other passersby asked for his name and what lord he served, but he didn’t answer their questions, only nodded amiably and continued at a leisurely clop through the streets. When he reached the bridge that crossed over the falls, the sound of rushing water filled his ears, and he thought about all the times he’d heard it since leaving. The waters of the river had a pure smell—it was difficult to describe, but the scent of wet rock was overpowering and memorable.

As he reached the gates leading to the sanctuary, he turned his horse and rode into the courtyard, feeling an overpowering sense of tranquility as he did so. He approached the large pool outside the massive structure and reached into his purse to retrieve a single silver livre. He tossed it toward the center of the pool, watching as the coin plopped into the water. He stared at the statue of the Lady of the Fountain and nodded to it, offering a small prayer in his heart.

Thank you, Our Lady, for sparing my life.

A prickle of warmth went down his back, making him feel restless and uneasy.

Was it his imagination?

Gooseflesh tingled down his arms, nearly making him tremble. He stared at the statue for a moment longer. Lord Kinghorn was a Vox knight who had tried for years to hear the voice, but he had never heard an answer. Lord Kinghorn was one of the most honorable men in Ransom’s acquaintance—if he had not been deemed worthy, what hope did Ransom have? None whatsoever. Besides which, the creeping anxiety he’d felt while talking to the older man returned at the sight of the Lady. What would he do if he did hear the voice of the Fountain?

What if it told him that he’d gotten everything wrong?

He turned his steed and exited the gate, aware of the constant stares that came his way. No one recognized him, but then again, why would they? He’d left as a lad, and the city saw many knights coming in and out.

As his steed climbed the hill, memories of his youth at Kingfountain came rushing back. Claire was in most of them. He let out his breath slowly, trying to tame the nest of hornets in his stomach. He was worried about talking to her, afraid he’d come across as a fool, yet he needed to see her. Truth be told, he was also worried about seeing Queen Emiloh. How could he thank her for paying for his release? No simple words could suffice.

When he reached the gates, the soldiers on duty asked him to identify himself.

“I am Marshall Barton come from Tatton Grange. Lord Kinghorn sent me.”

“You are expected, Sir Ransom,” one of them said. “Enter the courtyard. You’ll be met by Sir Acostel, who is greeting the visitors. He will direct you.”

“Thank you,” Ransom answered and continued on. The mule balked before passing under the portcullis. Ransom wondered if the animal feared the gate might suddenly come down, cutting it in half. It was a strange thought to have, and he shook his head at himself and continued in.

Sir Acostel had long, flowing, light brown hair—balding on top—and a trimmed goatee. He wore a fancy tabard with the silver rose badge on it and gripped a leather-bound book as he stood waiting for Ransom to approach. A page stood by him with a quill and a bottle of ink.

“Greetings, Sir Ransom,” he said after the introduction. “The queen has been eagerly expecting you. You have two horses in your possession and your armor, I see. Your other baggage will arrive from Tatton Grange, I presume?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Ransom answered, feeling a tickle in his throat. He coughed to clear it.

A stable hand arrived with a mounting block, and Ransom swung down from his saddle and thanked the boy.

“Sir Graun!” called Acostel. A knight approached quickly. “This is Ransom Barton. The queen wished to see him at once upon his arrival. Please escort him to Her Majesty.”

They entered the palace, and as Ransom walked alongside the fellow, he took in the sight of the familiar rooms, noting how much they had changed. During Ransom’s final days at the palace, so many servants had abandoned Gervase that the halls had felt desolate. Now they were festooned with garlands and thronged with people in fancy livery and servants carrying an assortment of dishes, although none were laden with food. Was this just a preparation for the coming coronation?

“I fancy your armor,” said Sir Graun. “Where’d you get it?”

“An armorer in Chessy,” replied Ransom.

“It must have cost a fortune. Were you ever a tournament champion?”

“No, although I did win some events.”

“Funny how all the champions tend to be Occitanians,” he sneered. “Have you met the Black Prince?”