Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(10)

After a while, once the castle had quieted down, Ransom heard footsteps on the floor rushes. His mother entered, looking around for him for a moment before noticing him on the floor.

“Marshall,” she said, gesturing for him.

He rose and approached her.

She had a paper with a waxed seal in her hand. Her eyes were red from crying, but her mouth was firm and determined. She handed the missive to him, then showed him the name written in ink on it, ink which had soaked into the paper. Sir Bryon Kinghorn—Castle Averanche.

“What is this?” he asked his mother.

“Sir Bryon is my cousin,” she said in a low, emphatic voice. She hooked her hand around his neck and pulled him closer. “Averanche is part of King Devon’s lands. It’s a castle near the sea. You must go there, Marshall. I’ve asked Sir Bryon to take you into his service. This letter will be your introduction. If you start training now, you could be a knight in five years. Since my husband won’t train you, my kinsmen shall.” He took the letter in his trembling hands, and she held his face and kissed him twice. “You’re a Barton, but you are also a Chaworth.” She kissed him once more. “And you are my son. Be as loyal to Sir Bryon as you were to the old king, and you will go far. Loyalty, my son. That is the true coin of the realm. Will you do as I ask?”

The gratitude in his heart was overwhelming. “I will, Mother. Thank you.” And he kissed her back.





A knight is more than just a warrior. Anyone can hold a sword and swing it about. Anyone can be taught to sheathe a lance in a ring suspended from a wooden post. Anyone can sweat and bleed. Yet most of the young men who desire to become a knight fail. The skills of sword and shield are useful in times of war regardless, and it’s helpful for a person to know how to obey orders, even if they grumble about them. But a true knight is a leader of men. That is the heart of what a mesnie is, a group of knights with one leader.

Before someone leads, they must first learn to follow. And following is a difficult skill. It’s not one taught in the training yard or on a horse. When me da gives an order, he’s obeyed. I don’t know how he earned it or what he went through to achieve it, but he is a true knight, a true leader. King Gervase was not. He wore a famous crown, and yet men did not obey him. Da doesn’t talk about his time as a youth serving under his uncle. I’ve asked. He won’t tell me, and a dark look comes into his eye when I press.

—Claire de Murrow

Glosstyr Keep

(watching the boys play in the training yard)





CHAPTER THREE

Averanche

The wax seal of his mother’s crest had gotten Ransom past the gate and into the great hall of Averanche castle. It was evening when he arrived, and the raucous noise coming from the trestle tables indicated that those enjoying the food were both hungry and well acquainted with one another. Ransom followed his guide, the castle’s silver-haired steward, past rows of sullen men, most with broad shoulders and grizzled beards. They looked like knights. Another row was full of enthusiastic youths who boasted of their achievements of the day and clashed their metal cups together in raucous toasts. The knights ate together. The youths ate separately. All the noise came from one side until a bear of a man with a balding pate and scruffy beard rose from the bench and shouted, “Enough of this racket!”

The thunder of his shout quieted most of the lads, but Ransom heard some of them laughing still.

One of the young men at the table stood out to Ransom, for he wore a very fine tunic, one with intricate patterns threaded into the fabric. It was a prince’s costume. His hair was the color of dried thatching, and he was the only one at his table who wore a decorative gorget collar over his tunic. All of the boys at the table had smudges of dirt on their faces, and some had bruises. The fair-headed young man turned as Ransom was escorted past, his eyes blue and penetrating. He said something to those at the table, and suddenly four sets of eyes followed him the rest of the way. The fancy-dressed youth gave Ransom a mocking salute with his cup and a grin full of open contempt.

Ransom had been eager to meet Lord Kinghorn, but his stomach suddenly twisted with worry. After passing through the great hall, the steward took Ransom down a torchlit stone hall. The smell of the sea, which he’d enjoyed as far as the castle walls, had been completely quenched by smoke from the burning pitch in the torches. Averanche was an older castle, one built along the coast between Westmarch and Brythonica to defend against invasions by land or sea.

The steward came to a stop in front of a heavy oak door and knocked on it firmly before pushing it open. The scrape of the door against stone could be heard, and they stepped into a room lit by oil lamps, not torches. A windowed porch door lay open, allowing in a fresh breeze. It was a private study, one with a writing desk full of papers and leather-bound books. There were books everywhere, in fact—some stacked on end tables, a shelf haphazardly cluttered with them. A stand by the hearth held four swords of differing sizes.

Lord Kinghorn sat in the chair behind that desk, a neglected meal on the table before him, and he was coughing violently into his fist. Ransom saw the unfolded note with his mother’s broken seal on the table atop other papers.

“Here is the boy, Sir Bryon,” said the steward, who then stood by the door.

Interrupted in his coughing fit, the large man gestured for Ransom to wait as he took a sip from a bronze chalice. Ransom hadn’t been sure what to expect, but his mother’s cousin was quite a bit older than her, his gray hair combed back from his forehead. He had broad shoulders, the physique of a warrior, but there was something interesting in the love of books on display throughout the chamber.