Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

The king gestured for them to leave and turned to approach Lord Kinghorn, who sat in one of the councilors’ seats adjacent to the throne, along with the other members of the king’s council.

Devon turned to leave, grinning eagerly at Robert and Simon before clapping them both on the back. Ransom stayed where he stood, hoping he’d have a moment to petition the king himself while his courage was high.

Lord Kinghorn noticed Ransom still standing there. He must have mentioned it in a low voice because the king abruptly turned around and gave him a quizzical look.

“What is it, young man?” asked the king. A look of annoyance flashed across his face. “Speak.”

Ransom bristled at being called young man. He was almost twenty-three, but he didn’t want to be peevish. “I wondered if I could have a word with you, my lord?”

“A word only? Very well. I grant you one.”

Ransom wasn’t sure if he was teasing or not, but he approached the king, who met him halfway.

“What is it, Sir Ransom?”

“Claire.”

The king blinked. “You took me at my word, didn’t you? One word. Well, I’m afraid I must ask you to elaborate on your intentions.” Wariness crept over his expression. “If you’re asking to marry one of the wealthiest heiresses in the kingdom, I’ll save you the trouble with a definitive and unyielding answer of no.”

“No, my lord, I wouldn’t presume—”

“You would, actually. But go on. What do you want with her? I’m very busy. Speak plainly.”

“I should like to see her. But I understand that no one may visit . . . the tower . . . without your express permission.”

The king stroked his beard and then scratched his neck. His look of annoyance increased. “To what purpose?”

“We were childhood friends, my lord. We both grew up here at the palace. I should . . . I should . . .”

“Don’t stammer! Say it.”

“I should like to see her again. That is all. Her father died. I wish to give her my condolences.”

The king threw up his hands. “I would be an ungrateful king indeed if I denied such a meek request. To the tower you may go. The password for the guards is ‘perfidia.’ An hour only. Such can be spared for the victor of Chessy.” He ended it with a laugh, showing he didn’t think highly of the accomplishment.

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Go on, get out. Enjoy your sport whilst the men in the kingdom work.” He turned and walked back to Lord Kinghorn.

Ransom slipped away before the king could change his mind.



There were too many steps leading up to the queen’s tower. It was the tallest tower within the palace, and Ransom had admired it from below many times. But climbing the spiral stairwell winded him, and his anxiety increased with every step. A few torches hung from rings in the walls, but the arrow slits were narrow, and it was dark. Wind whistled through the gaps, and it was colder than he’d expected. He ran his hand over the rough stone bricks as he headed up.

By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he was gasping for breath and put his hand on the window casing as he paused a moment to catch it again. The guards at the foot had allowed him to pass after his declaration of the king’s password. He had seen no one else.

While Ransom was still bent double and panting, the door to the chamber opened abruptly.

And there was Claire de Murrow.

“I heard someone coming up the steps, but then it went quiet and . . .” Her eyes widened in recognition, and her speech trailed off.

“I’m sorry . . . I didn’t announce myself,” he said breathlessly.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Ransom,” she said, her expression showing worry. “You’ll get in trouble.”

“The k-king . . . granted me permission . . . to see you.”

Her hand came up to the edge of her bodice as she blinked in surprise. “You asked to see me?”

“I did. I was given only an hour. May I come in?”

“Of course!” She turned. “Emi, look! Look who it is!”

As he entered the chamber, he took note of how small and close the space felt. Even so, this wasn’t a normal prisoner’s quarters. There was a curtained bed against the far wall, framed in golden wood with little filigree designs carved into it. A mirrored wardrobe was built into the foot of the bed, the door ajar. A fire burned in a hearth decorated with marble pillars. The floor, cut from diagonal slices of wood, was picturesque as well, although a rich red rug concealed most of it.

By the only window sat a sturdy desk and two chairs, and he saw several small books stacked on it, as well as one that was open with an inkwell and stained quill nearby.

Queen Emiloh rose from the bed, wearing a simple but rich gown. She was just as tall and regal as he remembered, and he dropped to a knee in reverence.

“Oh dear, no,” said the queen with a smile. “I’m in disgrace. No need for that. Come, Ransom. Please. We are friends.”

Claire had walked to the table and gently closed the open book, scooting it toward the edge. He wondered what was written inside it, and why she’d so deliberately moved it out of the way.

“You are still my queen,” Ransom said, feeling a surge of gratitude for her—thick and warm and delicious. He’d never forgotten the way she’d paid his ransom when he was captured by DeVaux’s men. The last he’d heard, DeVaux had been humbled by Benedict and the mercenaries.

“I have no rings for you to kiss anymore,” Emiloh said. “So good of you to climb up here. Claire and I do not get many visitors.”

“Not many at all,” said Claire with an impish smile. “But we’re never lonely.”

Ransom gazed around the room again, looking at the trappings and the shape of the tower, and felt a strange sense of familiarity. As if he’d been there before. But of course he hadn’t. He would have remembered climbing all those steps. Still, something about it thrummed inside him. He heard the gentle lapping sound in his ears, but it wasn’t a premonition of danger. Something in the room had triggered a part of him. He didn’t understand it.