Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

The look of subdued anger on Benedict’s face showed that he was not enjoying the moment either.

Let’s get this over with, Ransom thought to himself glumly as he approached Lord Archer, who sat astride a massive destrier. His armor was fluted with an embellished design that gave him the look of a dangerous boar. As Ransom approached, the duke removed his helmet and cradled it in one arm. Claire’s father looked weary and concerned, but despite the gray streaks in his beard, Ransom could sense his strength and skill, his energy. He could also sense pain in his left leg and a swollen foot. On foot, Ransom could have easily beaten him. Mounted, though, Archer was a formidable knight. His dark eyes narrowed with suspicion beneath his bushy eyebrows.

“I wondered if this might be a trick,” Lord Archer said, “but I recognize you.”

“And I you,” Ransom replied. “I come on behalf of my king.”

“So do I. The true king.” His look sharpened with anger. “While I fight here, my own lands in Legault are being ravaged. Believe me, I would like to end this as quickly as possible. What message do you bring me?”

“My lord, I am sorry about your troubles. Truly I am. I hope your daughter is well.”

“I don’t know myself,” he snapped curtly. “If Devon the Younger seeks to negotiate, you’re wasting my time. I have orders to arrest him and bring him to the king.”

“That should not be difficult to fulfill. I believe he is coming up the road behind us.”

Lord Archer’s bushy eyebrows furrowed. “Then why have you come?”

“He wishes to surrender to you. Not his father. His wife, the princess Noemie, was captured already. I just saw his brother among your retinue, so there’s no hope of help from the Vexin. We’re surrounded.”

“Indeed you are,” Lord Archer said. “Glad you’ve realized it would be folly to continue. You gave your lord bad advice, Sir Ransom.”

The accusation stung, but Ransom absorbed it by saying nothing. He sensed the presence of the lady still. She hadn’t moved, nor did it seem she planned to. Still, he worried she might cross the river while he was distracted with Glosstyr.

Lord Archer met his gaze and held it, weighing his words. “Is this a trick, Sir Ransom?” he asked at last. “A deception?”

“No, my lord. My king is prepared to surrender himself immediately.”

“Disarm your men and bring him to me. Lay down your weapons, and we will cross the bridge and accept the surrender.”

Ransom looked at the knights surrounding Lord Archer, and he could not help but wonder what it would have been like to encounter him under different circumstances, whether they would have come out victorious. He sighed at the lost opportunity, but his heart hung on Lord Archer’s words. He feared for Claire’s safety. “Very well. I will bring your instructions to the king.”

“Do so at once. If this is a trick, Sir Ransom, your honor is at stake.”

“I wouldn’t have come if it were a trick, my lord,” he replied. “I am loyal to my king, but I value my honor more.”

Those words had a visible effect on Lord Archer. His glare softened noticeably. “I’m glad to hear it. We’ll watch and await your surrender. You may keep your weapons, Sir Ransom. I grant you that exception to prove I bear you no ill will.”

He felt a surge of gratitude in his chest. “Thank you, my lord.”

Lord Archer nodded to him.

Ransom turned his horse around and started back toward the bridge, his heart feeling a little lighter, yet the sickening feeling of defeat still lingered.

As did his awareness of the woman hidden in the woods.



It was after midnight when they reached the camp of the Elder King’s army. Ransom had told Devon about the cloaked lady in the woods and his suspicion that she might be an Occitanian spy. To which Devon had promptly replied that if she were Occitanian, she was there to look after him, not hurt him. He’d said it with a touch of rebuke, as if Ransom should know better than to distrust his allies, but his dismissal of the danger had not settled well with Ransom. It still bothered him now as they entered the king’s camp.

Why did the Younger King put such trust in Ceredigion’s enemies? It was what had gotten them here, was it not?

No one was asleep. Cooking fires were going, and the men and knights were celebrating their success. When Lord Archer rode into camp, a cheer went up for Glosstyr and his men, and the sting of shame burned hot on Ransom’s neck. Devon, his king, tried to look gracious in defeat, but Ransom could see the stress lines around his eyes, the false smile on his mouth. His brother, Benedict, looked sullen and humiliated, and he gazed at his victors with repugnance.

They reached the royal pavilion at the center of camp and dismounted. Ransom saw Archer stiffen with pain and favor his left leg. It was subtle, but it aligned with what he’d noticed earlier. This ability to detect others’ weaknesses had developed over the last years and grew stronger every day. He didn’t fully understand it, but it had started during his time in the tournament circles and had served him well on the battlefield.

Lord Archer grimaced as he walked toward the tent, disguising the pain remarkably well.

Benedict and Devon both dismounted, and as they walked toward their judgment, side by side, Devon put his arm around his brother’s neck. “We do this together, Brother.”

“What do you think he will do to us?” Benedict asked worriedly.

“Forgive us,” said Devon with a grin. “What else can he do?”

“He can name Goff his heir,” said Benedict angrily. “Or worse, Jon-Landon.”