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

“Damian—” Emiloh said, but he wasn’t even paying attention.


“It’s good that you’re here, Lord Ransom. I think Estian may attack us through Westmarch. I’d like you to take an army to Beestone castle and prepare to defend our borders.”

“Damian,” Emiloh said again, more firmly.

“What is it?” he said, looking at her with a hint of annoyance. “We need to discuss war preparations. I will summon the king’s council.”

“You will not,” she told him, rising from the bench seat. Ransom rose also, towering over the other man, who looked at them with growing confusion.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because I received a letter from the king that you’ve been removed from your position as high justiciar. He’s ordered the Duke of Glosstyr to prepare for war, not you.”

Longmont’s jaw dropped open.

“You’ve been heavy-handed, Damian,” Emiloh continued. “You’ve made Jon-Landon seem like a sensible alternative, and that won’t do. I would like you to stay at the palace until Sir Simon of Holmberg arrives to replace you as overseer of the Espion.”

“B-but I’m the one who created it!”

“Yes, but its purpose was to serve the king’s interests, not yours. I’ve shielded you from many of the complaints. But you’ve lost the confidence of the nobles of Ceredigion. You haven’t heeded my suggestions as you should have.”

His cheeks had grown pale. “My lady, but the . . . I thought . . .” His voice trailed off. His shoulders slumped.

“Your services will no longer be needed,” Emiloh said. “You’ll return to Auxaunce when it is time.”

“If you’d just give me another chance,” pleaded Longmont desperately.

For a brief moment, Ransom felt sorry for the man. Not because he deserved sympathy—he didn’t—but because he knew how much it chafed to be dismissed from a duty. It had happened to him twice.

“That is all,” Ransom said, joining his voice to Emiloh’s.

Longmont looked at them both, opening his mouth to speak, but he must not have trusted the right words to come out. He turned slowly, then walked off and left them, slamming the door behind him.

Ransom sighed.

“I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him,” Emiloh said. “He’s not a man to take disappointment gracefully.”





I received a letter back from Emiloh. She was distraught at the news, yet she asked me why I hadn’t written to Ransom about our misfortunes. Why should I bother my husband with news he can neither act on nor sympathize with? Ransom sent a man to remove the book from me—the cheek of it—although there was naught for him to take. The knight carried a honeyed note that did not sway me, fresh as I am from Alix’s attack. The knight looked like he didn’t believe me when I said the book had been taken, and after he left, I found my things had been rummaged through.

I do not have my husband’s loyalty or trust. His devotion has always been, and ever will be, to the hollow crown. How can I tell Emiloh that when I married, I wed but half a man?

Emiloh said the king himself has put Ransom in charge of the defense of Ceredigion. Well, I have a revenge of my own to plot.

Maybe, when Benedict returns, Ransom will be allowed to come back. I will not go back to Ceredigion. It is a mire that sucks in everything.

I still miss Ransom sometimes, but I’m learning it’s possible to live alone.

—Claire de Murrow

Atha Kleah

(preparing for war)





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


Return of the Tide


Ransom snapped the quill in his hand and slammed his fist on the paper, smearing his attempts to put his raging thoughts down in ink. He shoved away from the desk and marched out of his bedroom at the palace and down the stone steps of the stairwell.

A man he didn’t recognize tried to stop him. “My lord Ransom, if you have a moment, I’d like to—”

“Not now!” he barked at the man, silencing the request before it was offered. He made his way to the training yard. Already the day was hot. He’d commanded the knights to get into peak condition, and several of them were practicing in the courtyard. Ransom summoned three to attend him and immediately began to pummel them with a relentless fury.

Emiloh had shown him the letter she’d received from Claire. The guilt and anger it had unleashed in him made his insides feel like a storm at sea. The book was gone, at least, but at what price? Keeva was dead. Willem had almost been kidnapped. And it had all happened because he’d stolen the Wizr set from Pree. It had never occurred to him that Alix would attack his family. It went against every tenet of the knightly code . . . but it had been a foolish oversight on his part. When had the Occitanians ever adhered to the ideals of Virtus? He’d assumed her travel was limited to the fountains, and there were none in Legault, but he’d gotten that wrong too.

Worse, Claire had contacted him about none of it. He’d tried, unsuccessfully, to write her a letter of reconciliation, yet every time he started, he began to accuse her for her silence. Had she but told him, he would have sent a hundred soldiers from Glosstyr to defend her and the boys at Connaught. Even though he would need every last one of them to defend Ceredigion.

His mood was bleak, and the three knights he’d charged with defeating him were beaten back without gaining any advantage on him. One nursed a swollen wrist from the violence of Ransom’s counterstroke, which made him chide himself. These men needed to be ready for war.

After the bout ended, he dismissed the other two and sent the injured man for aid. Sweat trickled down his cheeks, and when he rubbed it away, he felt the stiff bristles of his returning beard. Hot, miserable, and still raging inside, he went to a bucket for a drink and ladled some water down his neck and back.

Claire should have told him what had happened to her. Someone should have at any rate. He thought about Guivret rotting in some Occitanian dungeon . . . likely at Kerjean. Did he know about Keeva’s fate? The thought tore at Ransom’s heart. But how was he to help Guivret when no one had contacted him about a ransom?

The sun breached the walls of the training yard, and Ransom started to march away, feeling miserable but slightly less angry.

Before he reached the door, he met Jon-Landon coming into the training yard.

“You’re leaving already?” the prince asked in confusion.

“There is much I must do today,” Ransom answered. He was about to walk past the prince, but he noticed the young man’s supplicating hand.

“I was hoping, Lord Ransom, you’d spend a moment teaching me.”

He wrinkled his brow and looked at the prince with surprise. Jon-Landon had never expressed an interest in training.

“I’m not Bennett,” the prince admitted. “Frankly, I don’t enjoy the training yard. But if we’re going into a war with Occitania, I’d feel more comfortable knowing enough to survive in battle.”

It was a sensible sentiment. Ransom didn’t want to stay but felt he should.

“All right,” he answered with a sigh. He nodded back to the training yard. “What weapon do you prefer?”

“A trebuchet,” the prince said with a smirk. It was a powerful siege engine, one that could be used at a great distance. “I’ve been partial to using a sword and dagger in close combat. One for each hand.”

“It’s a good combination,” Ransom said as they walked back. The noise of the training yard filled in around them, but he could feel eyes on them. No one was accustomed to seeing Jon-Landon in the training yard. “You can deflect your enemy’s weapon with the sword and then use the dagger to stab through a gap in the armor. Let’s see how well you do.”

Ransom watched as the prince drew his weapons, which looked too shiny and decorative to have spilled any blood. He stared at the young man, his Fountain magic already supplying him with information about the prince’s prowess. He had some skill. But it wasn’t anything compared to Bennett’s ferocity with a blade.

“Attack me,” Ransom said, gesturing for him to advance.

“You haven’t drawn your sword.”