Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

“Are you angry with me?” he asked her.

“Not yet. But you’re acting like a barmy eejit. Are you so completely ignorant of these things?”

“I think I am,” he said, feeling acutely uncomfortable. “When I was training to be a knight in Averanche, there were . . . some . . . who wanted to practice wooing. I practiced with swords and lances instead.”

“You mean Sir James?” she asked, looking at him directly.

He stopped himself before the accusation slipped out, but her eyebrows arched expectantly. She looked so beautiful in that moment it took his breath away.

“Say it, Ransom. Say the truth.”

“Yes,” Ransom said, turning away, feeling his cheeks growing hotter despite the cold.

“He’s shown a lot of attention to me,” she said, turning to face the river again. “It did seem a little . . . rehearsed. He can be quite charming.”

A horrible feeling grabbed at his stomach. He’d have been tempted to throw Sir James in the river had he been present.

“He is . . .” Ransom swallowed, trying to regain his composure and failing. “He’s a miscreant.”

“Oooh, that’s a strong word, Ransom,” she said, eyes shining. “Try being more blunt. He’s worse than a pig’s fart in a tent.”

Ransom chuckled. “Is that a Gaultic insult?”

“We are masterful at them,” she said proudly. “I should teach you some. You need to practice more.” She smiled at him then, which was why the question slipped out of him.

“But how can I when you’re not around to teach me?” he asked.

“’Tis true. I wish Da had paid your ransom, Ransom—oh, it never gets old saying that!—and that you’d come to work for us. Then again, there is something honorable about serving a king. At least, a partial one. The father and the son are at odds. That puts you in a difficult situation, doesn’t it?”

“I should think so,” Ransom admitted. “But I serve the Younger King. He is my charge. He has my loyalty.”

“He’s handsome, affable, and quite good at dancing, or so I’ve heard. I’ve never had the pleasure of being his partner. But he’s a brainless badger, Ransom.” She looked him in the face. “You know that, I hope.”

“I made mistakes when I was younger as well,” Ransom said. “Nearly got myself killed.”

“True. You’ve always been a bit of an eejit yourself.” She touched his arm. “But you survived. And you learned. It’s good to see you again.” She lowered her hand. “I worried about you. I truly did.”

The wistful look on her face told him that she was hoping for something. Something he feared he could not give, however much he wished it were otherwise. But he could at least give her the truth. Reaching down, he rubbed the braided bracelet she’d given him at Chessy. He saw her eyes go down to it.

“I’m not really a courtier,” he said, bending his elbow and bringing it up higher. “I’ve nearly died twice. Games don’t amuse me. I wear this because you gave it to me. And I’ll always wear it until you ask for it back.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you may not have any other choice,” he said. “I’ve heard the Elder King wants you to marry his youngest son.”

“The brat prince. Yes, I know.”

He swallowed. “They told you?”

“Da says that I should. But I don’t want a prince or the spoiled son of a duke.” She looked as if she were about to say something, but stopped herself. She looked down.

“What is it?”

“You’re being an eejit again.”

“Claire . . . I can’t ask for something I have no right to expect. I serve the king now and will likely serve him for many years. I’m not at liberty.”

“And you think I don’t know that?” she asked, blinking at him. “They cannot force me to marry any of them, Ransom. It’s a Gaultic custom for the woman to choose. Try to remember that, all right?”

She turned, the hem of her cloak swirling some snow, and walked back down the dock.

The ache in his chest hurt worse than the one from his injured leg. He knew how to treat wounds from a battlefield. He had no idea how to cure this one.





At last the winter has ended. A robin has been fetching thatch and building a nest in a nook in the wall here at the castle of Glosstyr. I’ve been trapped here for months, the onset of snow preventing either Da or I from crossing to Legault. We spent the midwinter celebration in Ceredigion. I missed the Gaultic celebration—the haunting melodies of the songs and the strange lights that glimmer in the woods, reminding us of the Aos Sí and their strange ways.

The Elder King asked Da if Jon-Landon might stay with us in Glosstyr during the season, and he could hardly disagree. What a strange boy he is. His brothers all have gold in their hair, but this lad is dark, brooding, and rather sullen. I’m grateful the petulant child didn’t attempt any wooing. That would’ve been unbearable. No, he seemed ill at ease among us, and I did pity him, but not enough for pity to turn into any sort of fondness. I received a midwinter gift from Sir James. Nothing from Ransom. I was frustrated by our conversation following the coronation. Did he understand what I meant when I said that I have a choice? Does the fool man know I’ve already chosen him? Maybe I should have written a confession of feeling on a note, bound it to an arrow, and shot him in the heart from the palace walls. He may not understand anything more subtle.

—Claire de Murrow

Glosstyr Keep, Duchy of Glosstyr





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Trial of Flags

The warming air had reduced the snow in the training yard to graying mounds that diminished each day. The air was brisk, but only a few icicles remained in the shadowed corners of the yard. Ransom gripped the blunted sword, breathing slowly to calm himself, his vision limited by the iron helmet. Even in a war game, he felt the urge for violence. He feared losing control of himself again.

“We need a strategy,” Devon said, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, watching as the rabble of knights began to approach.