Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

What would she believe?

He wanted to speak, to defend himself, but he did not. He would not accuse the princess in front of these men. His ears burned hot, and he felt on the verge of violently expelling everything he’d eaten that evening.

“Why are you still standing there?” Devon asked with withering contempt.

“You are in danger, my lord,” he forced out, his tone urgent. “Please hear me out.”

“I don’t want to hear another word from your lips. Get out.”

Ransom bowed his head to the Younger King and then turned and walked out of the tent and into the night. Tears threatened his eyes, but he willed them back. As he walked, a half-drunken noble fell in alongside him.

“I wish you’d never been born,” the Brythonican said, burping, laughing. He clapped Ransom on the back, then staggered off drunkenly.

The words stung. He’d already felt guilty about the manner of his victory against the Brythonican champion—about his violence—and the man’s statement struck him down to his core.

You’re not worthy. Even serving Devon loyally could not make it so.

Suddenly he felt like that little boy again, standing on a barrel with a hangman’s noose dangling before him. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself turn and look back at King Gervase.

The grinning king nodded to him, gesturing for him to put his head through the noose.





It can’t be true. Has everything I’ve hoped for been a lie? The Younger King returned. Everyone is saying that Ransom is in disgrace for trying to seduce Devon’s wife. The rumors are so ugly. They say that his heart turned proud after he won his second championship. That his fame and success sent him the way of the heroes of legend. The stories have left me with an aching heart. Part of me believes it is true, and part of me questions whether they’ve all gotten it wrong. Has some bout of madness overtaken the realm?

I don’t know what to think. All I know is it hurts to breathe. It hurts to think. It hurts to grieve. Some stains cannot be washed clean. Oh, Ransom. Were you acting the maggot in Brythonica? Are you just like other men? I cannot hold Noemie entirely blameless either. Perhaps she bears a degree of fault for this transgression. I can usually find some comfort in tears. But not this time. This time they burn my eyes.

—Claire de Murrow

Kingfountain Palace

(heartsick)





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The Sanctuary of St. Penryn

Ransom rode his destrier against a stiff wind, leading the packhorse burdened with his supplies. He had a heavy heart, which grew even heavier as he glanced at his lance. No pennant flapped in the breeze, for he was once more a knight without a lord.

The coastal road was choked with scrub, a sign that the sanctuary had few visitors. Most of the trees grew at sharp angles from the consistent push of the sea winds.

Ransom had the trophies from his victories and enough silver livres to start his own mesnie should he want to. But he could not think of the future, he could not think beyond the shame of having been forsaken by his king, a man to whom he’d shown unshakable loyalty. After this journey was done, he had decided to return to the Heath and see his family. They, at least, deserved to know the truth about his infamy. He could never return to Kingfountain.

Memories tormented him. What could he have done differently to avoid this fate?

Sir Simon, at least, had been sorrowful at his departure. He didn’t believe the tales. Having one person not think ill of him was better than none, but Ransom knew his reputation was tarnished irrevocably. People would believe the worst, especially since the story was so lurid. That was the nature of life. He sighed, enduring the chafing wind. It was nothing compared to the emotions abrading his heart.

It sickened him to think of Claire learning the news. There was no way to get word to her, for she was one of the Elder King’s wards. Any correspondence to her would go through Devon the Elder first, although his lackeys read his correspondence before he did, so it likely wouldn’t even get that far. No, he would proclaim his innocence in person, face-to-face. How that would happen or when, he didn’t know, but he would not rest until it did.

Although Ransom tried not to dwell on his misfortune, it felt like his life was a never-ending series of setbacks and failures. He wanted to serve someone and to serve them faithfully. It was part of his character now, forged during his misadventures and trials. Yet he’d once again been wrenched away from his master without warning. This was more than a mere disappointment. Part of his soul had been wrenched away. He felt empty, as if his secret well of strength had been ruptured.

In the distance, he finally spied the sanctuary of St. Penryn. It jutted out of the rocky cliffs with all the luster of antiquity. It was not as grand as some of the other sanctuaries in the realm, but what it lacked in adornment it made up for in resilience. In truth, he’d never felt less worthy of a distinction from the Fountain, but he’d told Queen Emiloh he would heed her charge, and this, at least, was something he could do.