Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

“Aye, but there be a fourth! Trickery. Never underestimate its usefulness. You trick the inhabitants into opening the gates. The lad’s father is a master of that. We’d best be wary.”

It was good to know. The defenders of the castle had retreated when attacked. Some had argued to the Younger King that he should pass by Arlect and drive deeper into Westmarch to encircle his father’s forces and keep them from retreating into Ceredigion. But Devon had won his first battle in the field outside the town of Spurring, and he wanted another victory to keep the momentum going. Leaving an armed castle behind would limit his ability to maneuver, especially since they didn’t know how many men had holed up inside it. Ransom had been one of those who had argued they should take the castle. But if the siege took too long, it would blunt their offensive, giving the Elder King more time to retaliate and gain allies.

War was indeed like a game of Wizr, an endless one.

“How is Captain Stafford doing with the tunneling?” Ransom asked. Without siege engines, one of their options had been removed, so Devon had decided to undermine one of the walls. Knights had already cut down a tree to make a battering ram, but that was a diversion, to make the besieged knights inside believe they were going to try to breach the gate by force. Meanwhile, sappers were digging beneath the corner wall of the castle. The smoke was there to hide their movement from those guarding it.

“I think he’ll be done today,” the captain responded. “If they figure out what we’re doing, they’ll bring archers to that wall, and it’ll slow us down. But all this smoke helps hide our intentions. I think we have the castellan plenty confused.”

“Who is it? Do you know him?”

“Sir Jude of Wentland.”

Ransom knew the name. “One of Lord Kinghorn’s knights.”

“Oh, you know him?”

In his mind, Ransom could picture the scowling face. “Aye. I trained with him at Averanche.”

“You know Kinghorn, then?”

“Aye, and he’s my kinsman too.”

“Pfah! You don’t say! Mark my words, I think the walls will fall today.”

“I hope so. I’m back to report to the king from the night watch.”

“Well enough. Until later.”

Ransom saluted him, and they parted. Issoudun had been privy to the secret all along, and when he’d learned that Ransom would stay true to the Younger King—and, indeed, had knighted him in Pree—his friendliness toward him had increased. It had turned into outright regard after the first battle, when Ransom had single-handedly unhorsed ten other knights and claimed bounties from each without killing them. Many lives had been lost that day, many dead to be buried, but Ransom had kept it from being a slaughter.

Although he did not regret his decision to stand behind the Younger King, it didn’t feel right battling his own countrymen. It troubled his conscience.

Ransom found Devon’s tent in the haze and approached it. Sirs Simon and Alain were on guard outside.

“Is the king awake?”

“Aye, go in,” said Simon.

Ransom parted the canvas door. Devon sat at a table within the tent, already wearing a hauberk and a smoke-stained tunic. His face was sooty, but he smiled at Ransom, beaming with pride at his conquest. Princess Noemie sat abed, holding a blanket to cover her nightclothes as she read from reports. The sight of her chestnut hair streaming down her back, unbraided, caused a tightening in his chest, so he looked away. She glanced up at him, then went back to reading.

“How was the night watch, Ransom?” Devon asked eagerly.

“I found one man asleep at his post and gave him a thrashing before sending him to his captain,” Ransom said. “But all the rest were alert. Discipline is good.”

“I’m glad you were hard on him. Fear will keep them awake. Do you think the defenders of Arlect will try and attack us at night?”

“Not likely,” Ransom said. “We probably outnumber them. No, they’re hoping reinforcements will arrive or we’ll move on.”

“Which is precisely why we need to end it before help comes,” Devon said. He pored over a rudimentary map on the table in front of him. “Come look at this. Advise me.”

Ransom gazed at the map, which looked like it had been scrawled by a court scribe. It was all written in Occitanian. Instead of Westmarch it said La Marche. “You got this map from King Lewis?”

“Yes, but I wonder if it is accurate. Isn’t there a castle here?” He pointed to a spot to the east of their location.

“Yes, one built during the civil wars. It’s not in our path.”

“Father’s maps are more accurate, then. That gives him an advantage. I should have spent less time in the North. I don’t know Westmarch as well as I should.”

“Ransom looks tired,” said the princess. “Let him rest. If they breach the wall today, he’ll need his strength for the fighting.”

He glanced at her again, wondering why she’d said such a thing, although it was, of course, true. He was impressed that she’d come on the campaign instead of remaining behind in the safety of Pree. Her advice throughout the situation had been both useful and well thought out, and yet his instincts warned him not to trust her. Her behavior was different when her husband wasn’t there.

“You haven’t slept, have you?” said Devon, looking at Ransom’s bleary eyes. “She’s right. Get some rest. We’ll wake you if anything exciting happens. All this soot and smoke. It makes it hard to breathe.”

“This is war,” said Noemie.

“By your leave, then,” Ransom said, nodding to them both. He left the tent and found himself lost in the smoke for a moment, but then he remembered his tent was behind the king’s. All of the mesnie slept around Devon, a final circle of defense. A page helped him remove his armor, but he wouldn’t take off his hauberk, and he slept with the pommel of the sword the Elder King had given him in his hand. He stared at it, feeling guilty still for what he was doing. But exhaustion made him succumb quickly to sleep.