Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

Ransom felt certain he had been set up. To be caught in a compromising situation. He nearly attacked Robert, but he feared what might happen if he allowed his anger to escape. He might not stop punching until Robert was dead.

Noemie let out another shriek of rage. Robert’s eyes widened with concern.

“Her only sickness is inside,” Ransom snarled, “but you knew that.” Then he shoved Robert against the wall and walked past him, looking for a place of refuge, a place to hide.



They won the tournament.

Cheers of acclaim filled the air as Ransom took the victory stand again, and the Duchess of Brythonica gave him a laurel crown made of gold with seven pieces of jeweled glass. She kissed his cheeks, one on each, as she’d done with the other champions, and proclaimed that he’d won ten thousand livres and the rank of viscount, which came with a small manor on one of the hills in Ploemeur.

Sir Terencourt approached him after the ceremony, his stump wrapped in bandages, and offered his congratulations as well as an apology for not conceding earlier during their match.

“I was too proud,” he told Ransom. “I knew I should have yielded, but I couldn’t bear the shame of it. It’s not your fault. You could have killed me, and I would have deserved it. Instead, I only lost my arm.” He smiled weakly, showing that he was far from recovered. But his kindness eased at least a portion of Ransom’s guilt.

Even Devon’s brother Goff congratulated him, albeit reluctantly. The revenue from the manor would not be as substantial as what he earned from his castle and lands in Occitania, Goff said, but it was also nothing to scoff at.

The celebration was to continue in the town of Ploemeur. Several knights invited Ransom to join in the carousing, but he rejected them, feeling numb in his heart. He knew he had to tell Devon about the incidents with Noemie and also his suspicions about the cloaked lady. The conversation would be a difficult one, however, and he decided it would be best to wait until they returned to Kingfountain. He did not wish to cause a scene in front of Goff. Besides which, the princess hadn’t been able to meet his eyes since it had happened. She ignored his presence entirely with an air of indifference. With any luck, she would continue to do so.

Sir Simon approached him during his wanderings and said that Devon had asked to see him, so they walked together past the merchants’ stalls.

“Have we spent all the livres the Elder King gave us?” Ransom asked Simon.

“It’s actually harder than I thought,” Simon replied. “There’s still a bit leftover after last eve. I might just give the rest to you instead of wasting it here.”

Ransom chuckled. “Just spend it. Give whatever is left to the king’s other son.”

“Now that you are richer than King Lewis, you can afford to be so generous,” said Simon.

That sort of distinction had its own troubles, though. During the tournament, many knights had attempted to capture him, hoping to receive a handsome ransom. But none of them had successfully challenged him. He’d never felt so strong, so quick, so confident in what he could do.

After passing more well-wishers, they found Devon’s pavilion, bright with torchlight against the encroaching evening. Revelers walked in groups down the streets, cheering and greeting each other noisily. Ransom and Simon entered the tent and found the mood within quite altered.

Ransom felt a sudden chill go down his spine when he saw Sir James next to the Younger King. He held a goblet, his smile feral. There was no sign of the princess or any of her maidens. It was just the king’s mesnie and Sir James.

When Ransom looked at Devon, he saw his friend’s countenance had completely altered. The jovial camaraderie from earlier was completely gone. His eyes were red-rimmed, as if he’d been weeping, and there was no mistaking the accusation and anger with which he regarded Ransom. All was not well.

Ransom’s chest constricted. Sir Robert stood right next to Devon, arms folded imperiously, his eyes full of hatred. Of victory. Ransom’s heart sank.

“You summoned me, my lord,” Ransom said, his voice sounding thick.

Devon glared at him. His eyes were like daggers. “Yes. I did.”

Ransom took in James’s smugness. Why was he even there? Why was he always there when Ransom was humiliated?

His gaze shifted to the other knights of the mesnie. Sir Talbot looked disappointed, and Sir Alain couldn’t even meet Ransom’s eyes—he just kept looking at the floor as if ashamed for him. No servants were present. But Noemie’s absence seemed even more conspicuous now.

The feelings thrashing around inside Ransom’s stomach were dark and savage. The silence grew uncomfortable. Then devastating.

“I am here, my lord,” Ransom said simply.

Devon took a step forward, his eyes flashing with rage, and Ransom wondered if his friend, his king, would strike him. No man had that right. Would he let him?

“Take your winnings,” Devon said. “Enjoy them. You will not be returning with us to Kingfountain.”

It felt like a hammer stroke ringing on an anvil. His heart ached in his chest.

“My lord?” Ransom asked in confusion.

“Was I not clear, Sir Marshall Barton? You will not be returning with us. I release you from my service. You are no longer a member of my mesnie. You have all the time in the world now to visit any sanctuary you would like to appease your guilt!” Devon’s eyes blazed with fury, with betrayal. “May the Fountain wash your stain. Get out of my sight.”

The pain wrenching Ransom’s heart was worse than anything he’d ever felt before. He was being dismissed, dishonorably, for something he’d never done. Oh, the look on Robert’s face said it all. So did James’s sneer—he suspected it was no accident the man was here to witness his downfall.

The injustice of it stung worst of all. He could only imagine what lies Noemie and Sir Robert had spewed about him. And now he would have to leave Devon in their clutches—at the mercy of whatever the Occitanians had planned for him.

Devon had a trusting heart but sometimes lacked discernment. He’d heed their advice, to his detriment.

A small voice in the back of his head also wondered what Claire would think of him.