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

Get down, Ransom!” Marcus barked, squatting beneath the protection of the wall. Smoke slithered through the field below them, blotting out the tents and Occitanian banners. The ominous row of trebuchets were being fitted, one by one, with massive stones that their enemies had dragged by cart and horse to be hurled at the fortress of Beestone castle.

Ransom planted his hands against the wall and leaned forward slightly, watching with unconcealed wonder as the trebuchet was triggered. The massive beam swung down, and the net holding the boulder flipped, the counterweight hurling it toward the castle. A few lucky shots had managed to reach the castle. But it was on high enough ground that the trebuchets hit it only sporadically.

He watched the boulder arc through the sky and felt no warning from his Fountain magic that he was in any real danger. It landed in the rubble of the destroyed village at the base of the hill. The Occitanian soldiers would have to fetch it back again, putting them at risk from the archers who perched in wait.

“It didn’t even come close,” Ransom said to his cowering brother.

Marcus lifted his head warily, rising a bit higher, and then came to stand next to him. He had smudges of soot on his face and smelled terrible. But so did all of them. “I have a fear of being crushed by stone. I’ve always worried about it, but this siege . . . it’s made it so much worse.”

Ransom gazed down through the smoke and haze. He believed they kept things burning perpetually to make it harder for the archers to shoot at them from above. Ransom wished the notorious robbing archer, Ryain Hood, had been captured and put to work defending a castle instead of plundering them. With a marksman like that, they could do some real damage. But the bandit was elusive and continued to steal from their supply lines. Every attempt to capture him and bring him to justice had failed.

But they could ill afford to send soldiers to hunt a small group of bandits when there were so many conflicts throughout Ceredigion. News of Benedict’s capture still had not come, and Ransom strained with agitation, knowing what would happen but not knowing exactly when. It was a difficult secret to keep, especially from Emiloh, who worried over her son’s failure to arrive and watched the Wizr board daily for a sign of his appearance. Ransom wanted to tell her, to put her mind at ease—if only a little—but he kept silent to guard the secrets he’d learned in Brythonica.

“I wouldn’t worry, Brother,” Ransom said calmly. “You’re more likely to die of the bloody bowels than a boulder.”

“Is that supposed to comfort me?”

“We’ve lost more to that disease than we have to Occitanian blades. Or boulders.”

“Aye. And Estian justifies his attack by claiming he fights for a young lad’s right to inherit his uncle’s kingdom. I don’t think the people would accept the boy now.”

Ransom watched as another trebuchet was loaded. He began to walk along the battlement wall, observing the mood of the defenders. They were weary from the long siege, but their courage hadn’t faltered. Although the Occitanians outnumbered them, especially now that Estian’s remaining men had returned home from the East Kingdoms, they didn’t have enough men to surround the castle and cut off supplies. Ransom would just as soon attack them and be done with it, but there were too many troubles elsewhere in the kingdom to justify the risk. Without Jon-Landon or Drew to move the pieces of the Wizr set, all Emiloh could do was watch the danger unfold and send orders from the palace.

A knight ran up the stone stairs leading to the battlements, ducking as a precaution when he reached the top, and then quickly strode toward them.

“Lord Ransom, a supply convoy was spotted coming from the east.”

“That’s good news and ahead of schedule,” Ransom said, giving Marcus an appreciative look. “Let’s send some soldiers out to greet and escort them.”

“They have soldiers with them,” said the knight. “Reinforcements carrying the Lion banner.”

Marcus grinned. “Another detachment has returned from the East. Good. They might be enough to drive these Occitanian wolves away.”

“I hope so,” Ransom agreed.

The sound of a trebuchet chain cut through the air, and Marcus flinched and ducked down again. So did the knight. Ransom stood, hands on hips, and watched the stone wing its way toward the fortress. It exploded against the rocky hillside, the impact pulverizing the boulder.

“At least they won’t be able to use that one again,” he said with a chuckle.

He and Marcus followed the knight down the steps to the bailey, which was crowded with soldiers, most of them bored and playing dice, awaiting their turn to guard the ramparts. Ransom recognized the captain of the detachment on sight—it was Captain Baldwin, the grizzled old instructor who’d trained Ransom as a lad in Averanche and come to DeVaux’s castle to pay for his release.

“Baldwin!” Ransom said with enthusiasm. He gave the graying man a knightly salute.

Baldwin smiled through his graying beard and tapped his own chest. “After getting back from the oasis, I asked if there was a nice quiet place an old knight could rest his bones. And the queen dowager sent us here to relieve a siege. Well met, lad. Well met!”

The two embraced, and Ransom introduced his brother.

Baldwin nodded and spat on the stones. “How many are against us?”

“We think about four thousand.”

“Pfah, you could have driven out twice as many, boy.”

“We have a thousand men,” Ransom countered.

“Now you have two thousand. I brought some young lads, fresh from their travels in the East. While they’re more used to skewering desert rats for dinner, I’m sure we can make quick work of these fools.” He reached into his tunic and withdrew a sealed letter. “This is for you. Unfortunately, our reunion will be brief. You’re needed back at the palace. It’s almost as if you were someone important now.”

Ransom took the letter, smiling at the jesting words, then quickly opened and read it.

“Has the king been found? Is he dead?” Marcus asked.

“The king isn’t dead,” Ransom said, betraying no emotion. He’d learned the news months ago. “He’s being held hostage by the Brugians.”

“That might be worse than death,” Baldwin said with an expression of distaste. “I knew he shouldn’t have left on his own like that. If Lord Kinghorn had been alive . . .” His look darkened.

Ransom nodded to Baldwin, sharing the sentiment. “We cannot change what’s happened. Only what will happen. Have Dappled saddled. I need to ride back to Kingfountain.”

“Remember how much the queen paid for your release?” Baldwin said. “I imagine they will squeeze her for every livre she has left. Is he even worth it?” This last comment was whispered under his breath.

Ransom felt a throb of anger at the sign of disloyalty. His own duty was clear. He’d sworn an oath to Benedict, who had fulfilled his father’s promises to Ransom. It felt wrong to repay him with even a ghost of contempt.

“He’s our king,” Ransom said firmly. “And I know what it’s like to be held captive by an enemy. I wouldn’t wish it on any man.”

“I might wish it on Estian,” Marcus suggested.

“I could be persuaded,” Ransom said. “Although I’d rather just kill him.”

Baldwin nodded with respect. As the other men hurried to prepare Dappled and an escort of knights for the journey to the palace, Baldwin hooked his meaty arm around Ransom’s neck and walked with him toward the well in the center of the courtyard.