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

The King’s Ransom

The following morning, Ransom was summoned to Lord Gotz’s private chamber to share breakfast with him. When he arrived, the mottle-cheeked lord was chewing furiously on a meal of steak and glazed potatoes. The fork he used was attached to his iron hand. He glanced up when Ransom was announced but went on with his noisy meal.

Ransom was directed to a wooden chair opposite Lord Gotz, and a servant poured wine into his goblet and gestured to the spread of steaks, hams, eggs, the breaded meat dish he’d enjoyed before, and some melon with orange flesh. Gotz took a quick slurp from his goblet.

“Sit! Eat!” came the hasty command.

Ransom seated himself, stabbed some of the food, and placed it onto his own plate.

“Ah, you like the schnitzel,” said Gotz after Ransom took a piece of the breaded meat. “You are Brugian at heart, I think.”

It was strange being alone with the lord of the castle. Gone was the sense of dread he’d felt the previous day. So much of it had arisen from the medallion’s power over him.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Ransom said.

“First eat. Then talk. Try the sauce on the schnitzel. Very good.” He picked up his knife and gestured to a golden vessel.

Ransom complied and rather enjoyed the heavy meal. A large wolfhound sauntered up, and Gotz tossed it a bone from his steak and chortled as the hound began gnawing on it.

After a tirade of slurps, loud chewing, and clattering, Gotz finally stopped eating and leaned back in his chair. He pressed a button on the knuckle of his iron hand, and it released the fork, which dropped heavily to the table. Frowning, he arranged the gauntlet again, using another series of buttons to close it into a fist.

“That’s remarkable,” Ransom said after wiping his mouth on a napkin.

Gotz burped loudly. “Genevese-made. Supple enough to lift porcelain and strong enough to break your jaw. I like it.” He fidgeted in his chair a bit and then rested his hands on his belly. “Are you ready to make me an offer, Lord Ransom?”

“Yes. I come on the queen dowager’s authority and my own as lord protector of Ceredigion.”

Gotz sniffed and inclined his head. “It must be a good offer. Don’t waste my time.”

Ransom saw the cunning look in Gotz’s eyes. He didn’t believe Ransom could best the offers he’d been given, but he was willing to let him try.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my lord,” Ransom said. “Nor would I seek to fool you as the previous emissaries have.”

Gotz frowned. “Fool? You take me for a fool?”

“I do not, no. I think you will do what is in your own best interest.”

“But you said I was a fool.”

Ransom leaned forward. “The emissary from the East Kingdoms. The woman with the silver mask.”

Gotz’s gaze narrowed. “What of her? She has offered one hundred fifty thousand livres. Can you best it?”

“I don’t need to,” Ransom answered, meeting the gaze calmly. “She will not pay it.”

“How do you know zis?” His accent, which he’d ably concealed, slipped a little.

“Because I know the woman behind the mask.”

Gotz snorted and leered at him. “How could you possibly know her? She does not show her face to anyone, although I long to see if the rumors are true. You convinced her to remove it, eh?”

“She removed it herself,” Ransom said. “She is Noemie Vertus, King Estian’s younger sister.”

Gotz blinked, the wrinkles on his face deepening. “That makes no sense. The lady has been bidding against Occitania.”

“To what purpose, do you think?” Ransom asked mildly.

Realization came swiftly. Gotz thumped his iron hand on the table. “To deceive me?”

Ransom offered a slight shrug. “The riches of Chandigarl have blinded you, my lord. A hundred fifty thousand livres. Who would have believed even a king to be worth so much? Occitania’s ambassador never expected to win. They drove the price as high as they could to ensure no one does. You won’t get the money, Lord Gotz. They’ve both played you for a fool.” He reached out and took a small sip from his goblet.

“Zis is an outrage! Alpert! Alpert!”

“Yes, my lord?” answered a tall, thin man, scurrying from his position by the wall.

“Tell the emissary from Chandigarl to come at once. I demand to speak with her.”

“M-my lord?” asked the man.

Gotz began to curse at him in Brugian, and the man replied hesitantly and with confusion. The duke slammed the table harder with his iron hand, rattling the dishes.

“What is it?” Ransom asked after the servant strode away.

“She’s already left,” Gotz said, his cheek twitching with outrage. “I’ve ordered my servants to give chase. I will get my revenge!”

Ransom was grateful for his rage. It would make him more amenable to discussion. “What did Occitania offer?”

Gotz, still upset, jostled the table again. “One hundred twenty thousand.”

“They will not pay it, Lord Gotz,” Ransom said, shaking his head.

“Why not? Everyone knows Benedict and Estian are enemies now.”

Ransom leaned forward. “Estian has a poisoner, trained in Pisan. Why pay a fortune if he could have his enemy killed for free? He offered you that sum as a ruse so you’d keep Benedict a prisoner. If you agreed to release him to us, Estian would send his poisoner to kill him. He pays nothing in the end, and you get the blame for killing a king. Threat and mate.”

His words had rattled the Brugian. Ransom could tell the man was considering the situation carefully. He waited, letting him absorb the information, test it against what he already knew.

“You know this . . . poisoner?”

Ransom nodded.

“Who is she?”

“Lady Alix, Duchess of Bayree. The king’s half sister.”

Gotz let out a sharp breath. “The spawn of King Lewis?”

“Indeed. My lord, Estian has tried to deceive you. What better revenge can you accomplish than by letting us pay our king’s ransom? I assure you, Estian will be punished.”

Gotz sniffed and couldn’t refrain from showing his annoyance. “No poisoner will kill him here. I’ve one of my own to keep her away. A hundred fifty thousand livres.”

“My lord?” Ransom asked with confusion.

“Give me a hundred fifty thousand livres, and he’s yours.”

Ransom felt sweat begin to gather on his brow. “We do not have such a sum, your greatness. I could offer you—”

“One hundred . . . fifty . . . thousand!” Gotz said, banging his iron hand on the table three times to emphasize his words. His look of fury increased. The sum was fixed in his mind—even if it had been a scheme, he was determined to have it still. Ransom saw little purpose in bargaining with Gotz when he was so distraught.

“Thank you for hearing me out,” Ransom said, pushing away from the table.

“Get me vhat I vant, Lord Ransom,” Gotz said with a dangerous look. “Or your king vill never leave the Vartburg alive.”



Ransom wandered the grounds of the castle, admiring the sturdy walls. He’d been to the king already to relay the news. The amount Gotz had demanded was well beyond what Emiloh had authorized him to offer. And yet, he suspected she would have agreed to any cost.

As he passed a small well in the tiny front courtyard, he heard the sounds of hoofbeats coming from beyond the gate. He walked over, expecting to find Gotz’s guards with Noemie and her retainers, but it wasn’t them. It was Damian Longmont and his Espion.

The guard at the gate questioned him.

“I am the high justiciar of Ceredigion, come from the court of Kingfountain to negotiate for the release of our king,” Longmont said with great bravado.

“Vat is zis?” asked the guard. “Emissaries from Kingfountain are already here.”

“They are imposters, surely,” said Longmont. “I am the high justiciar. The king will vouch for my identity. Bring me to him at once.”

Ransom continued his approach and then leaned against the gatehouse wall, folding his arms.

“You are in no position to give me orders!” exclaimed the guard with offense.