Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

“He’s Fountain-blessed,” said James with a wry smile.

Sir Talbot joined them at the table. He had a questioning look. “Who’s Fountain-blessed?”

“They’re saying Ransom is,” said Simon. “I’d wager it’s true.”

“Are you?” asked Devon with interest. “Is that how you survived?”

“I survived because of the generosity of a lady,” Ransom said softly.

“Now this I must hear,” James crooned, leaning forward.

The others did the same. Even Sir Robert turned around.

Ransom saw their attention, their interest. They wanted a story. They craved one. He wondered if they were bored with the riches and finery of court—it certainly seemed so from their level of interest. “After I was captured, they tied me to a nag and dragged me through half of the Vexin and who knows where else. I was still bleeding the whole time, though they refused to treat me. I had to rip part of my tunic with my teeth to bind my own wound.” Sir Alain, who’d joined them shortly after Ransom started speaking, began to look a little greensick. “Soon it was soaked in blood. I had to rip more of the cloth and reapply the bandage. It wouldn’t stop bleeding. I was sick and fainting from the pain. I knew if I didn’t help myself, they’d leave my corpse in a ditch.”

Even James was listening closely now, and some of the other patrons were edging forward, trying to hear.

“We reached a castle. I don’t know where. The lord of the castle was at the tournament at Chessy. His wife or kinswoman offered hospitality to DeVaux, but under the threat of violence. They threw me on a pallet in some dungeon. I was so fevered, I could hardly think. But the lady of the castle came down with a loaf of mold-ridden bread. The knights guarding me didn’t want it, so I was allowed to eat it.”

“That’s disgusting,” Sir Robert said.

“Food is food to a starving man,” said Devon. “Go on.”

“The bread, I discovered, had been hollowed out. The lady had stuffed linen bandages inside it. Those bandages and that moldy bread spared my life. I never knew her name.”

“She was the Lady of the Fountain, I daresay,” said Sir James with a facetious smile.

“I’ve seen that done before,” said Simon eagerly. “I saw a barber do it once after a knight was injured in a duel. The cut was deep. The barber pressed moldy bread on the wound after he’d cleaned it.”

“You’re daft!” said Robert. “Bread?”

“I saw it! I swear it’s true!” Simon objected.

“Is that who gave you the bracelet?” Sir Talbot asked. “It’s a lady’s favor, is it not?”

Ransom and James exchanged a glance. “No. I got it at Chessy.”

“Who is the lady?” Devon pressed, lifting his cup. “The design looks Gaultic.”

“Lady Claire de Murrow gave it to him,” said James. There was something in his voice, in his earnest gaze, that made Ransom wary.

“Lady Claire?” Devon sputtered, pulling the cup away from his lips. He looked from James to Ransom and back again. “Oh! Oooh!” Then he slapped the table, laughing hard.

The others joined him in laughter, relishing the ill humor between Ransom and James.

“Well, you must both be good to your new king,” said Devon, lifting his cup again. “For in all likelihood, I will be the one who permits her husband to marry her and become the new duke of Glosstyr as well as a queen’s consort!”

“Isn’t she promised to your youngest brother?” Sir James asked evenly.

Ransom’s stomach twisted with disgust as he awaited the answer.

“That’s the thing about promises from my father,” said Devon with a hint of bitterness. “They can take many years to be fulfilled. I’m married to King Lewis’s eldest daughter. Yet we’ve seen each other no more than a dozen times. We must wait until spring to be reunited.” His gaze drifted off. “Ah, but what spring? When? Always a promise, then a truce. Then another promise.” He shook his head. “I grow weary of it.”

“At least he is fulfilling this promise,” said Sir James. “He’s crowning you king.”

“Yes, and that deserves a toast,” said Devon, rising. “Good master of the tankards! A drink for all who have come. Drink to your new king!”

A chorus of cheers lifted up in the now full establishment. The excitement was for the ale, aye, but the people seemed to harbor a genuine fondness for their prince—soon to be their second king. He had a talent for making people feel both heard and valued. Simon hung his head as the cups were poured, and then he and Ransom exchanged smiles and shrugs.

The mood in the Broken Table was one of exuberance and excitement, yet a strange sense of disquiet stole over Ransom as the evening wore on. There were cups clattering, shoes stomping on the floorboards, men yelling, yet he could hear the rush of the falls in his ears. It was an ever-present sound in Kingfountain, but this feeling, deep in his bones, was more than the echo of water. He felt a warning prickle down his back. He felt the presence of danger.

Involuntarily, he got to his feet, his hand coming down to the hilt of his sword. The feeling inside him reminded him of the vibration he’d felt while beating metal with a hammer, something he’d done at the forge with Anders. It was a tremoring noise that was silent yet still discernable. He cast his eyes around the room, looking at the cheering faces of men and women. Everyone else seemed oblivious to it, their faces showing no acknowledgment of anything but good cheer. The sound of the waters in his ears grew louder.

A throb of pain shot down his once injured leg, which made him grit his teeth. He closed his eyes, focusing on the pain, trying to understand what he was feeling.

The threat was not inside the tavern. It was coming.

“What’s wrong, Sir Ransom?” Simon asked him.