Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

I must admit that it felt good to start writing again. Emiloh asked me about the book, and I shared portions of it with her yesterday. It led to a very deep conversation, one in which she spoke of her past, her youth in the duchy of Vexin. Her father died when she was fifteen. For some reason, I hadn’t remembered that. She cherished him, so she could understand how I felt about losing my father. It’s been difficult picturing her as anything other than the Queen of Ceredigion. But she knows fear, loss, and the uncertainty of the future. I asked if she had ever been in love before marrying the Elder King. Her look showed that her mind went far away. She nodded but said nothing more.

Ransom has returned to Kingfountain with Emiloh’s eldest son. Apparently, the fool eejit won the tournament of Chessy, and if the rumors are true, he nearly killed the Black Prince. We saw them ride into the courtyard, but the tower is too high to see very well. I should like to see him again, but if fancies were horses, even beggars would ride. I don’t know where I’ve heard that saying before. Things are so different now. But I wish him well. I truly do. Even if it means we cannot be together.

—Claire de Murrow

Queen’s Tower

(a fair summer’s morning)





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The King’s Contempt

The queen’s throne had been removed from the royal hall of Kingfountain, which was a sorry sight that still made Ransom cringe inside. The king’s was empty, for the man could hardly bear to sit still and usually paced in front of the dais, as he did now, listening to the report of their victory.

“I wish you had been there, Father,” said Devon the Younger. “We won honor for Ceredigion.”

“It sounds like Sir Ransom did the brunt of the work,” quibbled the father, giving Ransom a sidelong look and a somewhat approving smile. “They gifted you a castle, did they? Which one?”

“Gison castle, my lord,” Ransom answered.

The king pursed his lips and nodded appreciatively. “That was probably intended for the Black Prince, whom they expected to win. That they gave it to you instead? Curious.”

Devon the Younger flushed with anger. “It would have been dishonorable to do anything less.”

“Don’t patronize me with talks of honor, lad. Maybe they seek to bend our famous knight to their will. Gifts are quite an inducement.”

“We all shared in the glory, Father. The celebratory feast was quite liberal. Even you would have thought so. The best wines, berries from Brythonica, and the meat . . . I’ve never tasted better.”

“Oh, Lewis knows how to throw a party,” said the king with disdain. “Was he there?”

“Of course not. We were allowed to compete on the condition neither of you would attend. He wouldn’t go back on his word.”

“I think he would, if it suited him. Well, there’s enough of that. I’m off to the North tomorrow to hear justice. Be a good lad and try not to ruin the peace whilst I’m gone?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Devon demanded.

The Elder King stopped pacing and gave his son an accusing look. “Your penchant for Occitanian wine might tempt you to carouse in the city again. I’ve permitted it in the past, even though I wish you wouldn’t. I don’t mind if you go hunting or hawking, something to divert your boredom, but I’d rather not have one of my sons stumbling around drunk in front of my people.”

His son looked as if he would argue but reined in his temper and, after a brief struggle, maintained his equanimity too. “Of course. I will respect your wishes, Father.”

The king lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “My son acquiesces? A true miracle worthy of the Lady.”

But again, Devon didn’t rise to the bait. “There is another tournament, Father. One that will be held in the duchy of Brythonica. Midsummer’s Eve, I think. I should like your permission to attend that one as well.”

The king screwed up his face and tilted his head. “Is that why you’re being so agreeable?”

“No! Not at all. If you say no, then I will stay here and . . . hawk.” He stared at his father with pleading eyes, with a look that barely concealed his desperation. It was clear from his tone that he thought the art of falconry beneath his contempt.

A look of wariness was on the king’s face. “Brythonica, you say? A chance to see your brother Goff as well?”

“Yes . . . yes, of course!” said Devon. It was obvious he hadn’t even considered that.

The king sighed. “Very well. I’ll reward your forced humility with magnanimity. You have my permission to go, on the same terms as before. Lord Kinghorn sends his knights to escort you there and back.”

“Thank you, Father!” Devon burst out excitedly.

“I wasn’t finished. I’ll inform Lord Carlson to provide ample funds. Your mesnie are champions now, and I want them to look the part. Fresh royal tunics, flourishes for the horses, that sort of thing. A new banner with the Silver Rose. He’ll entrust Sir Simon with a thousand livres to spend liberally. Flaunt it, my son.” He closed his hand into a fist. “Show them the power you represent.”

The younger’s eyes widened with eagerness. He was so grateful for the news that he didn’t question his father’s motives, but Ransom saw something beyond the words. The Elder King was turning their victory at Chessy into a political statement. But all Devon could see was the possibility of jingling coins and fame.

“You are . . . most generous, Father,” said Devon, his exuberance spilling out. “Thank you. Thank you!”

“I don’t usually squander my coins, lad. There is a purpose behind everything I do. Don’t squander my goodwill.”

“I won’t. I promise you! Thank you again!”