Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

“Of course, my lady.”

“Please. Call me Emi as the knights who serve me do. How I tire of such formalities.” She gave him a gracious smile. “But let me be candid with you, Ransom. I have brought you here to serve my son. Of course, I had to arrange it so that my husband thought it was his idea. He has forgotten that everything we’ve achieved has been done together. His memories of the past have become shaded by pride, I fear. He believes in his heart that he did it all alone. Sadly, that is a failing of most men. And one, I’m afraid, my son will fall victim to as well.” Her lips pursed, and from the way her fingers worried at each other, he could tell anxious thoughts nagged at her.

“The king asked me to keep your son alive,” Ransom said. “I believe the word he used was ‘feckless.’”

“‘Reckless’ might have been less insulting. Devon, my son, has always been impulsive, daring . . . adventure-seeking. When he trained in Dundrennan, he snuck away from the castle with the other squires, roaming the town during the night and causing mischief. Drinking to the point of excess and being unfit for duty the following morning. When he returned here, he showed some decorum . . . for a few days. But now he roams the city, only this one is much bigger and . . . not everyone is grateful that an Argentine rules. There have been some altercations.”

Ransom let out his breath. “He needs a protector.”

Queen Emiloh looked him in the eye. “He needs an example, Ransom.” She stepped closer to him, then reached out and took his hand in both of hers. “I fear Duke Wigant’s son has not been a wholesome influence on him.”

“Is Sir James here?” Ransom asked, dreading her answer.

“Yes, but only for the coronation. And then I’ve made sure that he’ll be returning to Dundrennan to learn how to be a proper duke. It would not be fitting for a duke’s son to be part of the king’s mesnie.” She squeezed his hand. “It is my hope that your influence on him will help guide him. We forbade Duke Wigant from knighting our son in Dundrennan. Devon feels the stigma keenly. But his errant ways have not qualified him for the honor of knighthood. You earned your rank the eve of your first battle. I think he will look up to you, will come to admire you. Your influence will help mold his character.” Her fingers dug almost painfully into his hands. This was a mother’s plea of desperation. “Be loyal to him, Ransom. That should supersede any loyalty you feel to his parents. I chose you because you did not abandon me in my hour of need. Nor did you abandon Lord Rakestraw after his murder. And you did not abandon King Gervase either.” Her voice softened in tone. “I remember you as a boy. I was too preoccupied then with my own brood of children to take pity on your situation. But I felt a desire to help you if I could. I regret that I did not. I was too drowned in politics and trying to outmaneuver my own husband to secure his throne.”

The handle of the door jangled, followed by a curt knock.

The queen released his hand. She touched his face tenderly and said the next in a whisper. “If my son believes that you serve my husband or me, he will not trust you. He is seventeen and thinks he knows everything about the world already.” Her smile turned sad. “But heed my words. Be loyal to him, Ransom. Help him become the king that Ceredigion will someday need.”

Her confidence in him made his heart beat stronger with determination. “I will, my lady.”

She arched her eyebrows.

He licked his lips. “I will, Emi.”

The smile she flashed him showed she was pleased. She quietly slipped through the hidden door and gently closed it behind her as the knocking grew louder.



Ransom was given a new sword from the armory at Kingfountain, a bastard sword with the royal crest engraved on the hilt, and a dagger to be used for cutting meat during meals as well as another one for fighting in close quarters. Sir Iain introduced him to the palace cooks, to the chief steward who would pay him his wages, and to a squire who had been entrusted with his belongings, which had been retrieved from Tatton Grange. These visits took up the remainder of the afternoon, but he was brought to the prince’s chamber as Devon and his knights ate the evening meal.

When he was admitted, there was no doubting which of the young men assembled at the table before him would be called the Younger King.

Devon was tall, nearly as tall as Ransom, and while he was more slender in build, he was fit and strong and had an aura of command. The ribbed velvet tunic he wore had a high open collar and was the color of pomegranates. Ransom had never seen such a vivid color before, and it stood out from what the others were wearing. Devon’s hair was dark with streaks of gold, thick and wavy and trimmed above his shoulders, and he had a goatee that seemed to be trying too hard. The resemblance to his father was unmistakable. As soon as he caught sight of Ransom, he chuckled something to the four other knights gathered around him. All eyes turned in unison to look at him.

It came as little surprise that one of the men was Sir James.

“My lord prince,” said Sir Iain, who had escorted Ransom there, “I should like to introduce you to Sir Ransom Bar—”

“No need for an introduction, Sir Iain! I can tell who he is just from looking at him.” He set his goblet down on the table and approached Ransom in a friendly manner. Several knights stopped eating, wiping their hands on linen napkins, before rising to their feet. Devon tapped his own chest with his thumb in a knight’s salute before reaching out and grasping Ransom by the shoulders. “Sir Ransom! You are just as James described you.” His blue eyes were intense, piercing, and he gazed at Ransom with a mixture of delight and wariness.

Sir James rose from the couch and came over, standing by the prince’s shoulder. “You look a little shrunken, Ransom. I take it they didn’t feed the prisoner very well.”