Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

“The king’s army. Your father! He’s coming from behind us!”

At that precise moment, the Younger King’s horse began to drop clods of manure onto the road. The smell of sickening fumes wafted from the heap.

Devon looked stunned, as if someone had struck his skull with a mace.

“Behind us?” he asked.

They’d been expecting to face him in front, joined by the forces from the north and south. They were their most vulnerable at that moment, with just the knights Devon had brought with them. The Elder King must have known as much and hung back rather than pressing forward. He must have discovered the betrayal went beyond Devon.

Ransom looked at Sir Robert Tregoss, who mouthed a word of dread, having gone pale.

“The princess was taken, along with all of the hostages from Arlect, who have now been freed. The king knows the size of our force. They’re riding hard behind me! We must go at once!”

Devon looked at Ransom, eyes bulging with panic. “Which way do we ride? North or south?”

“We should ride south, of course!” said the Occitanian knight. “Prince Estian’s army is that way. He will help free his sister.”

Devon scowled. “She’s my wife,” he snapped. He swore beneath his breath, then turned back to the sign of the crossroads. Three roads. Three choices.

“Ransom, which way?” Devon shouted in agitation.

Lord Kinghorn’s words came back to his mind. He felt the panic of the situation, the overwhelming urge to start galloping away, any direction but west, but he tried to calm his thoughts. If he had to choose between Estian and Benedict, he’d choose the latter. His instincts told him that even if the Black Prince helped them win, it would be a win for Occitania, not for the Younger King.

“North. Let’s find your brother.”

“Prince Estian’s army is bigger!” complained the other knight.

“But it will scatter to the winds if things go poorly,” Devon said, nodding in agreement with Ransom. Looks of terror were showing up on faces. Word of their predicament was spreading quickly.

“Let’s ride, my lord,” Ransom said, turning his horse around.

“We cannot leave my lady behind!” said Tibult in despair.

“You already did!” growled Devon.

They followed the marker to Blackpool, going north at a hard pace. Ransom led the way, and the road shook with the thunder of the hooves of their army. Five hundred men. It was not enough to face a king’s army. Not by any means.

They were all completely bewildered by the turn of events, but it was important not to let the shock of the moment rob them of good sense. At least they’d had a warning. If the Elder King’s army had come up from behind and caught them unaware, it would have been a disaster. Although their army would be weary and road-worn, perhaps Estian would be able to attack the Elder King’s forces from behind, and they could trap the army between them. It was a desperate situation, but it was still possible to win.

They rode for two leagues, passing villages along the way. No one came out, but as they passed, Ransom saw fearful faces peering at them from gaps in the windows.

They paused at the next village they found so their horses could rest and slake their thirst from the troughs in the village square. A soldier came bearing the news that they were being pursued. The king’s army was about a league behind them and riding fast.

“Clever old man,” Devon said with a grimace. “Ride on!”

Away they rode, knowing the Elder King’s knights were putting an equal amount of strain on their animals. They rode another league, and still there was no sign of Issoudun and his riders. Dread blossomed in Ransom’s chest as he realized the awful truth. Something must have happened to him, or Benedict was too far away to help them.

The answer came before dusk.

There was a bridge ahead, one made of stone. Four knights sat astride their chargers across its length. On the other side, a host of warriors had assembled, all mounted and waiting.

Ransom reined in, realizing instantly that it wasn’t Benedict’s army. Devon slowed and came up next to him, eyeing the armored warriors waiting silently for them. Ransom noticed that one of the knights on the bridge held up a standard, announcing the allegiance of the force.

These were the Duke of Glosstyr’s men.

Devon heaved for breath, his chest rising and falling quickly. “Richard Archer’s men,” he said, then he swallowed.

“And he’s waiting for us,” Ransom replied, looking at him. The Elder King’s army came hard on their heels. Although the Black Prince’s army might yet help them, they were now trapped between the two forces. “This means Bennett isn’t coming.”

“That’s what it looks like. This . . . this isn’t going the way I thought it would.”

Other knights rode up and halted. Horses nickered angrily at the sudden stop. Ransom looked back down the road the way they’d come. There seemed to be fewer men following them. He saw one knight on a destrier suddenly break ranks and flee into a field. He was joined by a few others.

Devon had seen it too. “They’re fleeing? Well, can I blame them? This is bad, isn’t it?”

Ransom breathed in through his nose and then let out the breath. “I think they’ve got us.”

“We could fight Archer, though? Couldn’t we?”

“He has three or four times as many men as we do. And they’re rested.”

Devon turned back, looking at the bridge. His expression darkened. “I didn’t want it to end like this.”

“Your father may forgive you,” Ransom said. He felt an unexpected tingle of relief. Part of him was grateful they’d been outmaneuvered. The prospect of the rebellion had never felt quite right for him, but he’d pledged his loyalty, and loyalty bound him.

“When I said that before, I didn’t think it was going to happen this way. This is awful. I don’t see how it happened. We had everything in our favor.”

“Such is the nature of war, my lord. Some will fight, but I think if you try and press it, men will die in vain.”