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

Claire’s voice trailed off, and she regarded Ransom with warmth and empathy.

He stared at her, stunned. She knew how much he admired Lord Kinghorn. And to hear this news on the eve of battle was a terrible, terrible blow. His first battle as a knight had been fought alongside Sir Bryon. And it was on that very eve that he had knighted Ransom.

“I’m so sorry,” Claire said, coming to him, her voice throbbing with sadness.

“At least he got to see the oasis before the end,” Ransom whispered hoarsely.





The King of Occitania must have learned that Glosstyr was well defended. Instead of attacking during the night, he began to withdraw his forces. He left behind a contingent of knights to hold the retreat. Ransom promptly attacked them, and he’s since been chasing the Occitanians all day. I’m still at Glosstyr, awaiting news of the outcome. Another message arrived from Emi today, saying that she’s heard Benedict has had some early success in the East Kingdoms, although we doubt whether the rumors can be true. It takes so long for messages to cross between us, however, that the conflict may be over by now. If he is successful, Benedict will be returning home sooner than we thought. It is a relief that help will be coming, even if it is far away.

I am still grieved by the news of Lord Kinghorn’s death. His son, Sir Dalian, was a friend to me while I was in the queen’s tower. Lord Kinghorn was to become the Duke of Westmarch once we reclaimed the duchy from Estian. Will the promise be honored, as Ransom’s was? Or will the king decide to reward someone else from the oasis campaign with such a privilege?

Will he keep his word?

—Claire de Murrow

Glosstyr

(turning the advantage in our favor)





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


The Loss of Josselin


A throb of warning from the Fountain alerted Ransom moments before a group of knights emerged from a thicket of trees on a hilltop. Sunlight flashed off their dark armor and shields as they raised their lances and began to charge into Ransom’s cohort.

Dappled’s strength had been tested that day as Ransom set a punishing pace to try to overtake Estian’s army before it reached Josselin. They’d captured many abandoned supply wagons and faced a number of brief skirmishes, all of which had yielded prisoners and provisions. The attacks had worked their intention, however: they’d slowed down Ransom’s advance guard.

“My lord!” shouted Dawson, pointing at the charging enemy.

Gripping a fresh lance, Ransom gestured for his knights to engage the foes. The thunder of hooves grew louder as the much smaller force charged toward them. Ransom’s own soldiers were spread out for nearly a league behind him, some escorting wagons full of prisoners back to Glosstyr, others seeking out Occitanian stragglers who had fled to the hills.

His concentration focused as he prepared to exchange blows with the Occitanians. He lowered his lance, homing in on the lead knight, sizing him up for weaknesses. The man headed straight for him, lance aimed at his heart, but Ransom sensed the knight would lower the tip of the lance at the last moment in an attempt to skewer Dappled instead. He veered to the side in anticipation, and the two rode past each other without either of them making a hit. Another knight was suddenly in Ransom’s path, and he took aim with his lance and unhorsed the fellow with a solid blow that sent him crashing down to the meadow.

Dappled snorted in apparent satisfaction. With a quick tap of his spurs, Ransom engaged another knight and unhorsed him as well. He sensed danger from behind and turned in the saddle, realizing the lead knight had come after him again. There wasn’t enough time to gather speed for a charge, so Ransom tossed down his lance and unsheathed his bastard sword. The other knight tossed his lance down as well and brought out a chained flail with spikes protruding from the balls. They clashed in close quarters, and the chained flail snared Ransom’s sword.

Leaning back against the saddle cantle, Ransom twisted his waist and wrenched the sword hard. The flail was ripped from the other knight’s hands, but rather than yield, the knight spurred his horse and came at Ransom from his blind side.

The man leaped out of his saddle to grapple with him, the sudden weight jolting him. Dappled nickered in anger and took a bite out of the fellow’s horse. Ransom felt his balance shift, and he toppled off the edge of his horse, the other knight landing atop him.

The knight pinned Ransom’s sword arm to the ground and drew a dagger, which he tried to plunge into Ransom’s visor. A blow from Ransom’s elbow deflected it, and he managed to roll and throw the other knight to the ground.

Ransom’s blood boiled with rage, and he raised his sword to stab through the gap between the helmet and breastplate.

“I yield!” exclaimed his foe, dropping his dagger and holding up his hands, palms facing Ransom.

Caught up in the maelstrom of battle, Ransom felt his inner nature compel him to finish the knight. There had always been a murderous corner inside Ransom’s heart, and it took him a moment to conquer the savage instincts.

“I said I yield!” the knight repeated desperately.

Ransom stood and kept the tip of his sword pointed at the weak spot in the man’s armor. He glanced around through his visor and saw his knights had once again won the skirmish. The Occitanians had known they wouldn’t win. These men had been sacrificed so that Estian could escape.

“Where’s the king?” Ransom barked at his subdued opponent.

“I don’t know,” answered the knight. “I serve the Duke of La Marche.”

“I’ve not heard of that,” Ransom snapped. “Where is it?”

“It is the duchy you call Westmarch. He’s fleeing back to Tatton Grange. We were sent to slow you. Are you going to kill me?”

Ransom lowered his sword. “You were captured and yielded. I will hold you ransom to the duke.”

“He will pay for my release,” said the knight with a tone of relief.

One of Ransom’s knights rode up to them. “My lord, Lord Tenthor is coming.”

Ransom turned and saw another company of warriors riding in, wearing Gaultic armor. “How many survivors?”

“Most of them,” said the knight. “After the first charge, they started to quit.”

Ransom found Dappled nearby. He sheathed his sword, picked up a fallen lance, and mounted. By the time he was situated in the saddle, Lord Tenthor came. His helmet was more open than the ones of Ceredigion and Occitanian make, with a sculpted nose guard coming down the middle.

“You didn’t save any for me, Lord Ransom?” demanded Tenthor.

“I was saving the King of Occitania for you, but he got away,” Ransom said in jest. “I’m glad you finally caught up.”

“Your army is strung along for a league behind you,” Tenthor said. “I overtook Duke James as he was taking supply wagons back. He said you were riding ahead of everyone else like a crazed fool.”

“Will you join me?” Ransom asked.

“That’s why I hurried. Let’s hunt this king down!”

Dawson rode up to them, a smile on his face. “I captured Sir Begret,” he said. “He was a tournament champion, I think. I give him to you.”

Ransom was proud of the young man. It was a mark of respect, giving your best hostage to the leader of the mesnie. “No, Dawson, he’s yours. You earned it.”

Dawson’s grin spread wider. “Are we riding still?”

“Of course. Disarm the hostages and have them escorted back to Glosstyr. You’re riding with us to Josselin.”

“Aye, my lord!” Dawson said with enthusiasm. “We’re not far behind them. If we ride hard—”

“Quit jabbering, and let’s go!” Tenthor shouted.

The chase continued.