Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

The knight turned against him instead, screaming in rage, and Ransom recognized the armor. He’d seen it often enough. It was Sir Jude.

The two clashed with their weapons, Ransom blocking a relentless attack as the older knight strove to kill him. Although he did not share that goal, he matched the man’s energy, moving fast, coming at Jude in a series of sweeps and cuts. They’d faced each other on the training yard so many times. And Ransom had never lost to him then either.

Jude backed away, panting, half sobbing. “It’s you! I know it’s you! Traitor!” he screamed, filling the air with a mournful cry as he swiped his sword again, his goal to end Ransom’s life.

Ransom stopped the downward thrust, twisting his own hilt to trap Jude’s, and then shoved him hard, knocking him down on his back. The knight’s blade clattered on the stone.

Stepping forward, Ransom leveled his blade at Jude’s helmet. “Yield,” he ordered.

Sir Jude, on his back, wrenched his visor up. He looked up at Ransom with fear and undisguised grief.

“Traitor!” he croaked.

“Yield!” Ransom barked. “I’ll not ask again.”

A look of misery crossed Jude’s face. Misery and humiliation.

“Do it,” ordered a voice from behind Ransom. “I order it.” It was a voice he recognized. It belonged to his kinsman, the man who had trained him. A feeling of horrible guilt swelled in Ransom’s breast.

It was Lord Kinghorn’s voice.

Sir Jude’s mouth twisted with agony. “I yield,” he said stubbornly, tears streaking down his cheeks as he collapsed back onto the ground.

Ransom turned and saw Lord Kinghorn coming down the rampart steps. His sword was out, turned upside down. He offered it to Ransom.

“And so do I,” he said solemnly.





A riot began in Atha Kleah as soon as word of the rebellion reached it. The Hall of Justice has been seized by the rabble, but our knights escaped with their lives, and they brought news of the attack to Connaught. Although we know not who will win the civil war in Ceredigion, the rebels in Legault see it as an opportunity either way—if the son wins, my father will be weakened by his connection to the Elder King. Even if the Elder King is victorious, his focus will be on his own kingdom, giving them an opportunity.

If Da hadn’t taken so many of his knights with him, I would have ridden to Atha Kleah to put down this rabble myself. The castellan has urged me to secure the castle, but I don’t want to act like I’m frightened of them. I’m not. We will watch the roads and see if anyone dares march against Connaught. Everyone in the castle is worried and nervous, but I am not. Yes, I’m the daughter of a chieftain king. But I’m also an Archer. I’ll defend my keep with a bow.

—Claire de Murrow

Connaught Castle

(first day of the riots)





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Four Roads

Ransom escorted Lord Kinghorn through the haze and mess of soldiers to Devon’s tent. There was even more smoke billowing about, and men carried torches to avoid running into each other. He heard the wheezing coming from his prisoner’s chest, which reminded him of how the haze had bothered Lord Kinghorn back in Averanche. The memories added to Ransom’s already festering guilt.

The knights wounded during the taking of Arlect were being treated for their injuries, some of which were serious and would prevent them from riding on. But they’d captured the castle easily enough. It was not even midnight yet.

Sir Simon looked at Ransom curiously as he watched him appear through the thick air, and his eyes bulged in recognition when he saw who was coming. Simon hurriedly poked his head into the tent and alerted the occupants to the arrivals. The flaps were tied open already, and Ransom ducked slightly before entering.

Devon was already beaming when he saw Ransom come inside, and his grin only widened at the sight of Lord Kinghorn. Noemie’s look had a hint of intrigue as her eyes went from one man to the other. She folded her arms, the jewels around her bodice glittering in the torchlight as she stood next to her husband.

“Who is this?” she whispered to Devon in Occitanian.

“Darling, this is Lord Bryon Kinghorn, the constable of Westmarch,” said Devon with a satisfied grin. “I’m impressed, Ransom. I sent you fishing for a castle, and you brought me a more excellent catch.”

“My lord,” Ransom said, bowing slightly. “I was trained under Sir Bryon in Averanche. He has surrendered himself and asks that you spare the garrison at Arlect. There are twelve dead, and a dozen more injured in the fighting.”

“It could have been much worse,” said Devon. “Well done. Sir Bryon, welcome. This is an unexpected honor.”

“Unexpected to be sure, Your Highness,” came the reply. “I’d anticipated you’d bypass Arlect. We were hoping to surprise you from behind.”

Devon nodded, his smile looking even more pleased. “Some had advised me to move on. If I recall, Sir Ransom was not one of them.”

Ransom felt sweat trickle down his back beneath his armor. He flushed with the praise but said nothing. He didn’t like seeing Lord Kinghorn humbled like this.

“Where is the Elder King’s army?” Noemie asked, her jaw lifting slightly. She had a queenly expression and the tone of command.

“I do not intend to be disrespectful, my lady, but I cannot answer you. Duty bids me remain silent.”

“If you kneel and swear loyalty to me,” Devon said, stepping forward, “then your duty would alter. Ride with us, Bryon. I would value your advice and your leadership.”

Ransom’s heart tugged when he saw the pained look on Lord Kinghorn’s face. His lips pressed together, the anguish of the choice apparent.