Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

When Lord Barton relinquished his son to the king’s custody, he had clearly barricaded his fatherly feelings behind a wall of stone. Ransom had known enough to dread his return—his father had not been affectionate before the incident at the Heath, and he’d certainly made no overtures since then—but even so, he’d expected more. He’d expected something. Filled with shame and anger, he was tempted to dash out of the hall, fetch Gemmell, and ride hard after Sir William. But he’d parted from the knight hours ago, and he had no idea how to find him.

Lord Barton sniffed and went to the table, searching for something to eat or drink. He turned his face to Ransom, the lead ingot flashing in the firelight. “Best to put it bluntly. I have nothing for you, lad. I’ve been loyal to Devon Argentine for years, and someday I hope he’ll make me an earl. But that title would go to Marcus, along with the Heath. All of it. I have a little dowry for Maeg too, but building this castle has cost me everything.” He grabbed a goblet and filled it, taking a long, slurping drink. “You brought a horse, I saw. A nag, by the looks of him. And that sword at your belt is cheap. Gervase didn’t reward you very much, did he? May he drown in the Deep Fathoms.” His voice throbbed with bitterness. “I’ve nothing for you, lad, and given the state of things, I may be called upon at any moment to help defend the realm again. There have been skirmishes with the Atabyrions up in the North, and Brugian ships have been marauding our southern coast since Gervase died.

“You can stay the night. I’d grant that hospitality to any stranger, for stranger you are. In the morning, be on your way.”

Ransom’s throat felt thick with tears, but he refused to show emotion. He nodded to his father and went by the hearth, pretending to warm his hands. The flames fed his anger. He still remembered being that little boy, brought to stand on a wooden barrel in front of the Heath. He hadn’t truly understood what was going on, although he remembered being afraid. Someone had teased him later that his father hadn’t wanted him, that he’d left him to die, and Ransom had punched the boy in the mouth. He wanted to punch the rock wall beside the hearth, but he didn’t. He stared at the sizzling flames, the red tongues lashing the logs.

Lord Barton began to talk again, addressing his wife and then his son, giving instructions about the work that needed to be done. He slurped down some more drink and made a fuss about the poor quality of the venison the woodsman had caught in the nearby forest. After he was done eating, he left, saying not another word to Ransom before going.

The sound of steps came, and Marcus joined him near the hearth. “You can sleep in my room if you want,” he said in a low voice.

Ransom turned and saw the look on his brother’s face. Was it guilt? Ransom didn’t trust his tongue, so he simply nodded. Marcus left the hall, and his mother and sister quietly did the same. A few servants came to start cleaning up the mess of the meal. Some bread and gravy were tossed to the hounds, and Ransom squatted down and rubbed both of them while they noisily ate.

The great hall was so tiny in comparison to Kingfountain. Everything felt small and tight, like a stone dungeon. His seething emotions calmed, but the resentment he felt cut deep. He couldn’t wait for morning. He’d leave first thing and try to find Sir William. He’d learned some Occitanian at the king’s court and thought there might be ways he could be of service.

He sat down and leaned against the wall near the hearth. The stone was warm against his back. One of the dogs, an older one he’d known as a child, came up and curled up next to him, the wolfhound laying his muzzle against Ransom’s leg. He smiled at the dog and scratched his ears.

After a while, once the castle had quieted down, Ransom heard footsteps on the floor rushes. His mother entered, looking around for him for a moment before noticing him on the floor.

“Marshall,” she said, gesturing for him.

He rose and approached her.

She had a paper with a waxed seal in her hand. Her eyes were red from crying, but her mouth was firm and determined. She handed the missive to him, then showed him the name written in ink on it, ink which had soaked into the paper. Sir Bryon Kinghorn—Castle Averanche.

“What is this?” he asked his mother.

“Sir Bryon is my cousin,” she said in a low, emphatic voice. She hooked her hand around his neck and pulled him closer. “Averanche is part of King Devon’s lands. It’s a castle near the sea. You must go there, Marshall. I’ve asked Sir Bryon to take you into his service. This letter will be your introduction. If you start training now, you could be a knight in five years. Since my husband won’t train you, my kinsmen shall.” He took the letter in his trembling hands, and she held his face and kissed him twice. “You’re a Barton, but you are also a Chaworth.” She kissed him once more. “And you are my son. Be as loyal to Sir Bryon as you were to the old king, and you will go far. Loyalty, my son. That is the true coin of the realm. Will you do as I ask?”

The gratitude in his heart was overwhelming. “I will, Mother. Thank you.” And he kissed her back.





A knight is more than just a warrior. Anyone can hold a sword and swing it about. Anyone can be taught to sheathe a lance in a ring suspended from a wooden post. Anyone can sweat and bleed. Yet most of the young men who desire to become a knight fail. The skills of sword and shield are useful in times of war regardless, and it’s helpful for a person to know how to obey orders, even if they grumble about them. But a true knight is a leader of men. That is the heart of what a mesnie is, a group of knights with one leader.

Before someone leads, they must first learn to follow. And following is a difficult skill. It’s not one taught in the training yard or on a horse. When me da gives an order, he’s obeyed. I don’t know how he earned it or what he went through to achieve it, but he is a true knight, a true leader. King Gervase was not. He wore a famous crown, and yet men did not obey him. Da doesn’t talk about his time as a youth serving under his uncle. I’ve asked. He won’t tell me, and a dark look comes into his eye when I press.

—Claire de Murrow

Glosstyr Keep

(watching the boys play in the training yard)





CHAPTER THREE