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

Jon-Landon opened his arms and knelt before his brother. An audible gasp of relief came from someone in the hall. Ransom kept his eyes fixed on the young prince.

“My lord king, Brother, I submit to your authority and confess my guilt before this hall and the peers of the realm. I conspired against you, my liege, and for this horrid crime, I beg your pardon and forgiveness.” The prince’s head was bowed low, so he said the words to the floor rather than his brother’s face. Although he’d spoken in a proper manner, the words lacked conviction and feeling.

Perhaps Benedict sensed the same. His face became inscrutable as he gazed down at his youngest brother.

“What you did was wrong,” Benedict said. “Your lies nearly ruined the kingdom of Ceredigion.”

“I admit it freely,” Jon-Landon said, still bowing. “I accept any punishment you would devise. If my death must wash away my wrongs, so be it. Send me over the falls.”

Was Jon-Landon goading his brother? By demanding the worst, was he revealing the king lacked the courage to execute him? The uneasy feeling in Ransom’s stomach grew worse.

“I’ll not kill you, Brother, if that is what you fear. Rise. We are reconciled.” The king opened his palm and gestured.

Jon-Landon stood. “Thank you. Brother.” His final word was said with just a hint of disdain.

“Take your seat at this council,” Benedict said, gesturing to the only vacant spot, the one next to Lord Kiskaddon. The new duke shot Jon-Landon a look of disgust.

Jon-Landon bowed his head and started toward the chair. But he paused before sitting, turning around and facing the council. “I know many of you may believe my repentance is insincere,” he said in a formal tone. “But I assure you that it is not. Many months have passed, allowing me to consider my ways. What I risked. I hope my past actions have not jeopardized the future rights of my posterity.”

He let the words hang deliberately over the hall. Then, with a triumphant smile, he turned to Benedict. “My wife is expecting. Soon, in a few months, there shall be another Argentine.”

From the look on Emiloh’s face, she was just as surprised by the news as the others in the chamber. Benedict glared at his brother in unspoken rage, realizing that he’d been caught unaware. Yes, Jon-Landon had asked for forgiveness. But he was even more anxious to claim the throne now, especially since his brother had failed to produce an heir.

In the surging emotions that followed the abrupt declaration, Ransom heard a whisper in the stillness of his heart.

The scion of King Andrew will be reborn through an heir of the Argentines. They will try to kill him. You are all that stands in the way.

And he realized, to his horror, that the voice was speaking of Jon-Landon’s son, not Constance’s.





I just received word from Ransom. The siege of Josselin hasn’t yielded any benefits yet. The Occitanians are determined to hold on to their possessions. Benedict is leading the siege against Tatton Grange himself, while Lord Kiskaddon has been ransacking the Occitanian countryside, trying to draw off forces from the castles to defend their lands. Sometimes we can even see smoke rising from Ceredigion. The land is at war. It is midsummer, and Occitania’s fields of grain have been trampled or torched. Something must give, or they will both continue to suffer.

Things are much calmer in Legault. The three children keep our nursery in constant chaos. I miss Keeva. Still no word about Guivret, who is dead or languishing in an Occitanian prison. No word has come. No answer can be given.

Some things must be determined by the sword.

—Claire de Murrow

Connaught Castle, the Fair Isle





EPILOGUE


The Poisoner


The air reeked of smoke, and the heat of the late afternoon had continued into evening. Benedict Argentine was dripping with sweat. Many men had collapsed that day from the strain caused to their bodies. Water was being carted in barrels from the nearby river, and some of the knights were stripping off their armor and plunging into the flow to cool themselves down.

Another messenger arrived from Lord Kiskaddon, wearing the symbol of the buck with massive antlers. Kiskaddon was an able man, and they’d become close during the war with the East Kingdoms. A war that now seemed more like a ruse than a proper conquest. Benedict had once enjoyed, or so he believed, the confidence of Estian. But it had all been a sham, a ploy to weaken Ceredigion so it could be plucked.

“What news?” Benedict asked, wiping the sweat from his face.

“We torched another grain field, one that was plump and ripe, my lord,” said the courier, handing over the letter. “I swear there will be no bread in Pree this winter. The people will starve.”

“Let them starve,” Benedict growled impatiently. He broke the seal and quickly read the letter, which ended with a request for permission to attack the duchy of Garrone and lay siege to Castillon. That duchy lay due south of Pree, and if Benedict and Ransom succeeded in reclaiming both Westmarch and Josselin, it would enable them to attack the Occitanian capital on three sides. But it was risky. If Kiskaddon overextended himself, he could get cut off, and that would be a disaster. No . . . it would be more prudent to wait until Westmarch had been reclaimed before they moved onward.

“It’s too hot, and I don’t have time to write a proper response,” Benedict said. “I need to ride with the patrol to see what damage we did today. Tell your lord to keep roving with his knights. Terrorize the villages. Be unexpected. When it’s time to attack Castillon, I will order it, but not until then.”

“Very well, my lord,” said the knight, giving him a salute.

Benedict returned it, and the knight left. After he was gone, Benedict pulled off his tunic and fought to get out of his hauberk. After detangling himself from it, he put his tunic back on and then went outside the tent. There was no breeze, none at all, and the sweat trickled down his back, ribs, and legs.

All he needed was a bit of air, and he’d go back and arm himself again. The castle defenders mostly stayed out of sight, afraid of the longbows being used by the Gaultic archers in Benedict’s camp.

A squire brought him a drink of water in a leather flask, and the king gratefully gulped it down and then handed it back.

“My lord!”

Benedict turned and saw one of his knights approaching through the haze of smoke. Sir Gordon. “What is it?”

“I’ve just had word, they think the wall may be breached tonight!”

“That is good news!” Benedict said. “What happened?”

“Some cracks have appeared in the northwest corner. Another direct hit from the trebuchet, and we think it’ll go down. If it crumbles, we could get inside and end this bloody siege!”

“What does Captain Horace think?” Benedict asked. Horace never exaggerated or succumbed to wishful thinking.

“Ask him yourself! This way.”

Benedict walked with him, crossing the rocky ground that had been trampled so many times it only yielded dust instead of weeds. Smoke drifted into view again, blocking their sight of the tents and pavilions for a moment. Walking farther, they came to the trebuchets that had been launching stones at the castle.

Captain Horace was also sweating profusely. Finding boulders big enough to hurl against Tatton Grange had been a challenge. Wagons and horses were constantly trying to drag them to the contraptions.

Benedict slapped the timbers of the waiting trebuchet. “Think we’ll breach the walls tonight, Captain?”

“I dunno, my lord,” said Horace gruffly. “It depends on how quickly those lackwit men can drag over stones large enough to hurl.” The captain frowned. “Where’s your hauberk?”

Benedict shook his head. “I was too hot. I left it in the tent.”

“Go put it on, my lord. We’re too close to the walls.” He punched Sir Gordon on the arm. “Why’d you bring the king out here without armor!”

“I didn’t notice!” Sir Gordon complained.

Benedict turned as he heard a wagon wheel creak. “Ah, some more boulders are coming.”