Lady's Ransom (The First Argentines, #3)

“It will be difficult to get word back in a timely way.”

“It will indeed. But as I told you, the Genevese are very liberal in their sharing of information with me. If something should happen to Benedict, I’ll know before Jon-Landon does, and I will summon you to Ploemeur. I’m grateful the Gradalis called on you to defend it. Perhaps the prison will be open at last.”

Ransom’s brow furrowed. “Prison?”

She shook her head. “More secrets . . . for another time. What orders did you bring me from the king?”

Ransom withdrew the scroll from his pocket and handed it to her. She broke the seal and began to read it. Drew returned with a plate of berries and offered them to Ransom. He ate the delicious fruit while she read.

“I don’t know how I can afford to pay this,” she said, shaking her head. “But that is my problem, not yours. Two hundred knights to join the war . . . that will leave Brythonica vulnerable. But the king has commanded it, and so I will obey.” She looked at him. “Will you stay the night? It’s always dangerous attempting a night crossing.”

“No, I must get back to Legault. Thank you for your trust.”

Drew came up and stood by her again, staring up at Ransom with a look of admiration. Constance stroked his hair again, and the protective look on her face made Ransom’s soul tremble.



Waves crashed against the side of the cog, rocking it violently. A storm had struck after they left Ploemeur and rounded the tip of the Brythonican peninsula. The tranquil sea was tranquil no more. The captain fought to reach Connaught, but the wind kept driving them away. Ransom’s face dripped with rain, his clothes soaked from the waves pounding against them. He could see the castle in the distance, but it might as well have been on another island.

“We can’t make landfall in such a storm!” the captain shouted to him, clinging to one of the ropes. “The waves will crush us into the rocks! We need another harbor!”

Frustration mounted inside him. “What other port is there?”

“Only Atha Kleah. We can be there before nightfall. The wind will push us right there. I’m sorry I can’t deliver you to your lady, but it would be safer if we didn’t try to fight it any longer!”

Another huge wave struck the hull of the cog, dousing both of them.

He’d wanted to see Atha Kleah with Claire. They’d planned to bring several of his knights and make a statement. But Claire wasn’t here, and he had neither servants nor knights to accompany him. The four who’d traveled with him from Kingfountain had ridden home from Brythonica on borrowed steeds. Entering Atha Kleah like this might be the most foolish thing he’d ever done. But it made him queasy to watch the gray surf pounding against the cliffs. What had Claire said? Terrible is the sea. Besides, Lord Toole was in Atha Kleah. He could call on him.

“Let’s do as you say,” Ransom yelled. Then he went belowdecks before he could be swept off to sea to find out for himself whether the Lady of the Fountain was real or the Aos Sí.

They did reach Atha Kleah before nightfall. It was the largest city in Legault, a dank and miserable-looking place. Ransom’s normally iron-hard stomach had been dented by the storm, and he was only too grateful to disembark.

Until he saw the crowd that had gathered on the wharf. The cog bore the royal emblem of Ceredigion, and passersby were pointing at it and standing around. Ransom walked down the dock, listening for any strains of Ceredigion or Occitanian, but they were all speaking in their ancient tongue, and he felt more and more uncertain.

“Oy, Sir Knight!” said a man missing a few teeth, accosting him in the language of Ceredigion. “You lost?”

Ransom reached for his blade, and the man quickly held up his hands. “I’m no blighter! Give a man a few livres? I’ll guide you wherever you’re going.”

“Lord Toole,” Ransom said. “Where is he?”

“Ah! Lord Toole. You know the high sheriff, eh? What’s the purpose of that ship, eh? Is it going to take the taxes to Kingfountain? Is that what it’s for?”

“Can you bring me to Toole or not?” Ransom said.

“I can. For a few livres. That’s not too much to ask.”

Ransom didn’t trust him, but he felt a strange compulsion to follow him anyway. “Lead the way.”

Clenching his hand around his sword hilt, he followed the oily man through the throng of people talking and laughing. Many were drinking a honeyed sort of drink that smelled sickly sweet to Ransom’s nose. Ransom’s neck prickled with warning as they entered the cobblestone streets of Atha Kleah. He looked to the side and saw several dark-clothed men trailing after them. His stomach was still ill from the voyage, but he prepared himself to fight.

The man brought him to a stately-looking home with a wrought-iron fence in front of it, the iron forming a woven design. The man jogged up the steps and quickly banged on a door. He looked down at Ransom, who remained at the level of the street. There were many such homes crowded close together.

The door opened, and the man spoke in Gaultic to the servant, who answered in the same manner. Some money exchanged hands surreptitiously, quickly pocketed by the guide. Ransom scowled. He felt the presence of the men in the shadows behind him, watching him closely, but they were not near enough to strike at him.

The fellow jogged down and opened his palm. “You’re here. Some livres, mate?”

“Weren’t you already paid?” Ransom asked him.

“Oh, that’s nuthin’. I pick up coin where I can. You said you would. You’re a man of honor?”

Ransom dug into his purse and dropped two livres into the man’s palm. He looked disappointed by the offering.

Ransom marched up the steps, but the door opened before he could knock. The servant was dressed in a green tunic with gold thread. He had carrot-colored hair and a little beard. “Welcome, mayster, welcome,” he said, speaking in Ransom’s language but with a thick Gaultic accent.

Ransom was sopping wet when he entered the fine home. The noise of the street quieted. He smelled varnish and a cooking meat dish. A huge two-handed sword was mounted above the hearth, the naked blade gleaming in the candlelight.

“This way, mayster.” The servant guided him to a room and opened the door.

Inside was a huge man, taller even than Ransom. The big man paced back and forth while four other knights in hauberks stood watching. They looked at Ransom with disdain. The huge man had a qinnamon-colored beard and scars across his brow. His hands were enormous.

“Lord Toole?” Ransom asked, but he already knew it wasn’t him.

“No,” answered the man in a deep, thrumming voice. “My name is Tenthor.”





We arrived in Atha Kleah today. It’s been so many years since I came here that I hardly recognized it. The amount of trade that goes through this city will soon rival that of Ploemeur. There are Genevese ships everywhere and huge imposing hulks on the lookout for brigands who prey on the waters between the Fair Isle and the continent.

The fortress of Atha Kleah still stands in the northeast corner of town. From the view of my tower window, I can see Scath Pool, which is the broad moat beyond the castle walls. I can also see the Wood Quay just to the south. That’s where all the ships are moored. It’s a busy town. Lord Toole, who is at the fortress with us tonight, said that the city is dark after the sun goes down. It is kept so because of the brigands. All the castle windows have thick wooden shutters.

Tomorrow we will meet with the first group of nobles who are to pay their taxes. I’ve been so ill in the mornings, but I mustn’t let it show. I’ll not breakfast in the morning. It wouldn’t do well to earn their respect if they saw their queen spewing her food.

—Claire de Murrow

Royal Fortress, Atha Kleah





CHAPTER SEVEN


Shadows in the Sun