Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

“There are no tournaments this day,” said Noemie.

“We will make one,” said Devon eagerly. “You will pick the prize.”

The princess looked troubled by the request. Her eyes went to her brother and then to her husband. “But . . . but Papa is holding a feast tonight in your honor.”

“The feasts here start so late. We’ll be back in plenty of time.”

Not with five hundred knights to rouse and muster. That alone could take half a day. Ransom had given orders for them to be on their guard and alert, not to be deceived by cups of wine offered with smiles. How many of the knights had obeyed, though?

Noemie looked worriedly at her brother. “I think it a fine thing to have a tournament. But why must it be today? There is one scheduled in a fortnight.”

Devon looked disappointed. “But I must be home by then. We must return to Westmarch. Surely we can go there and back if we travel lightly.”

Ransom’s insides twisted with concern. He wasn’t sure if he should speak up or not, but he recalled the concern in the Elder King’s voice as he urged his son to reconsider the voyage to Pree. He decided his silence would not benefit his master.

“My lord,” he said after clearing his throat.

Devon looked at him, brow furrowing.

“I would not advise going to Chessy today.”

“Why not?”

Ransom glanced at the siblings and back at his lord. “I fear it would take too long to ready your knights.”

“Then we go with those who are ready. We’re not going to be ambushed, Ransom. Estian’s men will be with us as well.”

Ransom looked at the Black Prince. “I don’t think it wise, my lord.”

“It is wise to be cautious,” said Prince Estian, meeting Ransom’s gaze. “While I agree you will be perfectly safe, Devon, there is tension between our kingdoms. Someone else might try to exploit that opportunity.”

Devon’s countenance fell as he looked back and forth between the two of them.

Princess Noemie gave Devon a coaxing smile, running her fingers through his damp hair. “Shall we not go to Chessy another day, Husband? Surely your father will permit you to attend the tournament in a fortnight?”

Devon put his hands on his hips and sighed. “Frankly, no. I don’t think he will.”

“Are you not his equal?” asked the princess, and Devon flinched. Ransom wondered if she’d said it deliberately.

Devon’s cheeks flushed. “Do you not also seek to please your father, the king?”

“Of course,” she said, giving a pretty smile. “But when I am your queen, it is my duty to please you. He will not be the king forever. We will have our turn. Hopefully, while we are both still young.”

It was said in a teasing way, and she rested her hand on his chest, looking into his eyes adoringly.

But Ransom had already seen her duplicity. He didn’t trust her at all. The Elder King had been right—they were in a den of vipers.



The royal feast was attended by all the major lords of the kingdom of Occitania. And given the copious amount of wine the guests were drinking, along with the feast of strange-smelling cheeses smeared on round biscuits and legs of meat dripping with grease, Ransom wondered if anyone else in the room was sober but himself. Devon laughed and seemed to be enjoying himself, surrounded as he was by nobles who were going out of their way to praise him and insinuate themselves in his favor.

Servants kept circling around Ransom like carrion birds, offering goblet after goblet of wine, all of which he refused. He paced throughout the decorated hall, weaving between the swirl of dancers moving to intricate music played by court musicians. Although he had no present feeling of danger, he feared he was missing something. Had the cloaked lady followed them perhaps?

He searched for glimpses of her in the hall, but the only people he recognized were from his group. The hour grew later and later, and some guests fell asleep in their chairs.

After making another circuit around the hall, Ransom noticed that King Lewis was sitting closely with Devon, speaking in a low voice. The boisterousness of the earlier hours had waned. Ransom approached the two monarchs discreetly, straining to hear their conversation. When he was close enough, the words became audible to him.

“He does not treat you with trust and respect,” said Lewis, a distinguished man with graying hair. He had a kindly hand on Devon’s shoulder, a fatherly gesture. “Already you feel like my son, Devon. I wish you had been allowed to spend time at my court. Instead, he sent you to the icy wastes of Dundrennan. We are not the enemies you’ve thought us to be. Surely you realize that now.”

Ransom felt a strong tug of warning. He didn’t look at the two rulers, instead letting his gaze wander across the hall while he listened to their talk. This was just what the Elder King had feared.

“I love your daughter,” Devon said. “Noemie is a treasure, truly. I want her to be able to come back here, to see you again. So that you might know your grandchildren.”

“Of course! Do I not wish it as well? I promised her to you in order to heal the ancient breach between our kingdoms.”

“Father thinks you put DeVaux up to his schemes,” said Devon. “To sow discord in the Vexin.”

Ransom felt a powerful need to interrupt the conversation, to pull Devon aside and encourage him to use discretion, but he knew it was impossible. He could only listen.

“Men like DeVaux are naturally greedy, my son. And so was your grandfather. He used the civil war to increase his lands and doubled the size of La Marche.”

“You mean Westmarch?”