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

“He can,” said Chauvigny. “Hold him down. I’ll take off his head.”

The other knight shoved Ransom onto his chest. Mud oozed against his face. Ransom reached with his left hand for the dagger he wore at his belt. The dagger he had saved from his first fight with Lady Alix. He stabbed the knight in the knee with it, causing a yowl of pain. Ransom rolled over, seeing Chauvigny rise above him, sword held in both hands to sweep down.

Ransom aimed for his visor and threw the dagger.

He heard a shriek of pain that rattled to his bones. Collapsing with exhaustion, Ransom waited to die, his final burst of energy gone. He breathed in gasps and gulps, his body afire with pain.

He knew what was coming next. The ground would suck in the dead and wounded.

Including him.





I went to the dungeon to ask questions of Purser Dougal myself. He is a dishonest man, conniving and sick in the mind. I asked him about the stone. There was a fevered look in his eyes when he answered me. He said it had belonged to my grandfather. Dougal had stolen it from the barrow mounds. He said my mother never knew of it.

He called it a seering stone. There was an avaricious look in his eyes as he spoke of it, a sickness that had gone deep. He asked me to kill him. He said he couldn’t bear not having the stone. Losing it, he said, was worse than any pain he’d ever felt. Looking in my eyes, he said he’d kill me to get it back. It was a warning and a promise.

I held the stone in my hand. It felt like any other stone. But last night I had a dream unlike any other. It felt more like a vision. I saw Ransom in a bed. The Duchess of Brythonica sat beside him, leaning down to him. I’ve never felt such a horrible need for revenge. A jealousy so deep it hurts to the marrow. Is the stone affecting me already, just from touching it?

I had Dougal executed this morning.

—Claire de Murrow, Queen of the Stone

Connaught Castle





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


Broken Knight


The muddy ground sucked Ransom down, oozing into his mouth, his nostrils, and his ears, the choking feeling making him thrash in desperation. He reached for something to grab onto with his left hand, his right wrist still broken. But the tugging mud was inexorable, powerful, and determined to claim him. He wrestled against the wet, sinking grit as it pulled him into its embrace.

“Shhhh,” soothed a woman’s voice, breaking him free of the nightmare.

He awoke in a tangle of blankets, his arm throbbing, his body soaked with sweat. It was dark, deep into the night, he was confused, and his entire body ached from wounds. Dim light glowed from the Raven scabbard.

“Claire?” he whispered hoarsely, the fear still fresh in his mind.

He felt a soft hand smooth his brow. “You’re in Ploemeur, Lord Ransom.”

He blinked, confused. He could see Lady Constance’s face in the dim glow of the room. She sat at his bedside, next to a small side table holding a basin of water and a single candle. The light came from both the candle and the scabbard glowing at his waist.

“How did I get here?” he croaked.

She removed her hand and reached for a rag hanging from the edge of the basin. After squeezing the excess water from it, she dabbed his brow and cheeks. “I summoned you,” she said. “You were unconscious and terribly wounded. If not for the scabbard, you’d be dead right now.”

“How did you know?” he asked, as weak as a kitten. His Fountain magic was spent, exhausted.

“How did I know what?” she asked, dipping the rag in the bowl again. “I’ve told you—I can sense the Gradalis’s magic. I know when it is used.”

“How did you know I’d failed?” he said.

“You didn’t fail, Lord Ransom. You defended the Gradalis. It’s still there.”

That was a relief, but one he didn’t understand.

“Who was it?” she asked. “Were they also from Bayree?”

Memories of the struggle were still fresh in his mind. “I don’t know for sure,” he said, stifling a groan. He felt the injuries in his back, his arms.

“We will talk in the morning,” Constance said. “Rest, Lord Ransom. Let the scabbard heal you.”

As he closed his eyes, he felt a powerful surge of jealousy and anguish . . . only they weren’t his. He thought he sensed Claire’s presence in the room. Guilt shot through him. He hadn’t gone to Ploemeur willingly, yet he could not tell her about the summoning. Or about the wounds he now bore. He fell asleep fitfully, then sank into blissful oblivion.



He awoke slowly, hearing cheerful chirps from the open window. The salty sea breeze welcomed him. For a moment, he thought he was still in Kingfountain, but then the pain made itself known. It was duller now, more of an allover ache than raw agony.

He heard the sound of wood knocking against wood, very lightly. When he opened his eyes, he saw a little boy, Drew, near the bedside, holding a carved wooden horse, which he was playing with as quietly as he could on the table. He brought the horse to the water bowl Constance had used during the night and lifted the horse up to drink from it as if from a trough.

The light shone in Drew’s soft hair, and Ransom felt a swell of tenderness at the young boy’s innocence. Then Drew turned the horse around and started it tip-tapping toward the edge of the table. He glanced at Ransom’s face and then brightened when he saw he was awake.

“His name is Hengroen,” said the boy. “He’s a destrier.”

“Is he hungry for some oats?” Ransom asked, trying not to groan.

“I think so,” said the boy. He turned his full attention to Ransom. “You’re very dirty. Were you playing in the mud? The blanket and sheets are messy. I hope you don’t get scolded.”

Ransom lifted his left arm and saw the mud caked into his fingernails and wrinkles of skin. He was a mess.

“Where is your mother?” Ransom asked.

“I don’t know,” the boy said, running the horse along the edge of Ransom’s bed. “Are you going to be my father now?”

His words caused a jolt inside Ransom’s heart. “No, lad. No, I’m not.”

“Oh,” he said innocently. “My papa is dead. He was trampled by a horse. I’m not afraid of horses.”

“You have no need to be frightened of horses,” said Constance, entering the room. “Thank you for tending to our guest. Go find Marie, and she will help you get something to eat.”

The boy smiled and continued to maneuver his wooden horse to the edge of the bed. He walked across the room and waved to Ransom before he left. Ransom tried to sit up, but a stab of pain made him grimace. Constance hurried over and helped raise him, and although he felt nothing more than gratitude toward her, guilt washed through him.

She eyed his face and neck. “I’ll have some servants help you bathe,” she said. “It’s hard to tell the damage through all this mud.”

“I feel better,” Ransom said, then stiffened with pain when he put too much weight on his wrist.

“I can tell,” she said archly. “Are you hungry? I can have some food brought first.”

“I need to get to Glosstyr,” he said with urgency. “Can you send me back?”

She shook her head. “The magic can only send you back to the location from which it plucked you, and I called you here from the grove. Were you in Glosstyr when the Gradalis transported you?”

He shook his head. “Almost. I sent my knights on ahead. They’ll be worried.”

“The storm has died down, but you’re in no state to travel. I can send a messenger, Lord Ransom. Tell them that you’re safe.”

He shut his eyes. “I don’t want them knowing I’m here.”

Constance was quiet for a while. “I see. Well, I won’t detain you, then.”

The anguish in his heart grew keener. “You truly cannot send me back?”

“I could only send you back to the grove, that is all.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “I am grateful that you defended it again. Can you tell me what happened?”

He regarded her carefully but sensed no ill intention coming from her. Just concern. “I was summoned because they found it again. It was . . . Sir Chauvigny. He had at least ten knights with him.”