Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

“I cannot, my lord.”

“Let me persuade you,” said Devon, his eyes shining with the hope that he might yet turn the constable into a strong ally. “You’ve served my father as the constable of Westmarch since Lord Rakestraw died. I would make you the Duke of Westmarch, part of my royal council. The lands would be yours for your eldest son, Dalian, to inherit. You’ve been a wonderful custodian. Swear loyalty to me, and I will invest you on this very day. You’re a capable man, Bryon. You won’t get this opportunity from my father. Please . . . consider it carefully.”

Ransom swallowed, seeing the look of temptation in Lord Kinghorn’s eyes. It was more than just a generous offer. It was a magnanimous act, and if the constable accepted it, it could turn the tide of the rebellion. If they knew the Elder King’s plans, his whereabouts, they could respond quickly and decisively. Yet it would be an act of betrayal. One that would haunt Lord Kinghorn for the rest of his life. Ransom looked at the princess’s face, saw her narrowed eyes, her cunning. Yes, she wanted Bryon to give in as well, but for different reasons. She was judging his worth as a pawn.

A man who betrayed his lord once might be inveigled to do so again.

Lord Kinghorn blinked quickly, glancing around the tent. He met Ransom’s eyes, and the young man felt a twist of dread in his stomach. Although it would undeniably work in the Younger King’s favor if the man succumbed, Ransom did not want him to compromise himself. It felt wrong.

“My lord, I am your prisoner,” he said, his voice thick. “If I broke my vow to your father, then you would forever worry that I might break faith with you as well.”

Devon’s smile flattened, and a dark look, bordering on anger, flashed in his eyes. Relief shot through Ransom, though, as did respect for the man he’d once served. He wondered if he might have been in Arlect, on the other side of the castle walls, if he’d only been given the chance years before.

“I don’t agree with your decision, Sir Bryon,” Devon said flatly. “But it is yours to make. Provide him with a tent and all the comforts due his rank. If this war ends in my favor, my lord, you will find that my next offer will not be so . . . generous.”

Lord Kinghorn’s nose flared, but he stood firm and said nothing in reply. Ransom escorted him outside and around the tent to his own. “This is mine,” he said, gesturing to it. “Get some rest. I’ll find a page to attend to you.”

Lord Kinghorn turned, his eyes watering, and he coughed deeply into his fist.

“I have your word you won’t try to escape?” Ransom asked.

“You do,” said Lord Kinghorn. “But you already knew that.” His look turned sad, regretful. “Perhaps that’s something you should be worried about for yourself.”



Two days later, Ransom sat on his destrier, pondering Lord Kinghorn’s words as he waited at the crossroads with Devon and the other knights in the mesnie. The road split into four directions, and a wooden beam planted in the weeds bore dyed-black planks pointing in the various directions. The words carved into them looked bone white from the color of the wood. They’d come up the western road, and the marker pointed back to Arlect as well as the ranks of knights who were coming down the road like a long metal snake. The eastern road went to Beestone castle, which was on the way to Kingfountain. To the north, the marker said Blackpool. The southern road bore the name Southport. Which direction they would take depended on what lay down each road.

The Younger King shifted in his saddle, the chain hood down around his shoulders. It was a fair day, and lazy clouds drifted above. The wind came from the east, bringing the smell of the pasture grasses. There were no travelers on the road. They’d seen no one at all.

Devon wiped his goatee with a gloved hand. “Where is Issoudun?” he murmured, gazing north. “I don’t want to stay here all day. We should be riding by now.”

They’d sent the captain ahead with riders, but he had not yet returned with news from their allies to the north. Both Sir James and Benedict were supposed to be moving down from that direction. Nor had they heard from the Black Prince, who was attacking down near Southport. It made no sense to keep going east, which was where they suspected the Elder King’s forces to be.

A horsefly came and landed on the unarmored neck of Ransom’s steed, and he waved it away. They all wore their full armor, which added to their discomfort.

“Do you want to send out another rider?” Ransom asked him.

Shouts rose up from behind them, and both men twisted around in their saddles. Knights were pulling off the road to allow a rider from the west to come through, with people shouting “Make way! Make way!”

A tingle of concern went down Ransom’s spine. Why was the rider coming from the west? He turned his horse around, and so did the Younger King, whose face became grave with concern. The rider bypassed the others, and they recognized him as Sir Tibult, one of the princess’s knights.

He was dripping with sweat when he arrived, his armor bearing the sigil of the fleur-de-lis. Ransom stared, knowing he was from the princess’s guard, who were with her and the supply horses and the rearguard of the army. She’d ridden in the back because it had been deemed safer, but this man’s presence suggested otherwise.

“My lord!” he said, half choking. His eyes were wide with shock.

“What is it, man?” Devon asked, his voice throbbing with agitation. “Why aren’t you with Noemie?”

“I b-barely escaped,” sputtered the knight.

“Escaped what?” asked Devon in confusion, eyes widening. “You should have stayed with her, man!”

“It was too late! She’s been captured.” He spoke in Occitanian, his breath coming in quick gasps. “They almost caught me. I had to kill two knights to make it out. They shot arrows at my back, tried to kill me and my horse!”

“Who? Who did this?”