Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(11)

“Pardon,” said the man in a wheezing voice. “The smoke from the . . . the torches . . . I can’t abide it. Come in. Come in.” He gestured with a stern smile, waving Ransom in. He coughed again, a deep grating cough that did not sound like it was from the smoke. The hearth had no fire lit within it.

The nobleman gazed at Ransom, who stood across from the desk. “Look at you, lad. So you are the one I’ve heard so much about.” His eyes were penetrating but not unkind. He looked serious for a moment, and then a smile lit his face. “Good-looking. You seem sturdy. I wish you had been free to come here earlier. Most of the young lads training are only twelve, and you’re at least fourteen.”

Ransom paused, not sure whether to interrupt, then said, “I’m twelve, sir.”

Lord Kinghorn’s eyebrows lifted. “Twelve, you say? I wouldn’t have believed it. You’ll be taller than the rest your age. Well, I’ll take you in as Sibyl requested. You didn’t ride to Averanche in vain. You’re my kinsman. I don’t have space for you, but not every boy who has agreed to train will make it.” He sniffed, his expression darkening, and another violent fit of coughing took over. Ransom waited patiently.

After regaining his power of speech, Lord Kinghorn looked at Ransom again in his keen way. “While you were hostage to King Gervase, did you do much training? You wear a sword, but can you use it?”

“I did, I have, I mean . . .” Ransom was embarrassed by his stuttering, so he tried to calm his nerves. Lord Bryon seemed like a respectable fellow. “I did train, sir, with the king’s knights.”

Lord Kinghorn shrugged. “I suppose we’ll see, won’t we? I will say this, Marshall, that is your real name, is it not?”

“Yes, sir. But everyone calls me Ransom.” Although the nickname had grated on him at first, as it was meant to, it now reminded him of Claire and his life at Kingfountain. He wondered if she had reached Legault yet.

“You might grow to hate the name now that you’re training to be a knight. A ransom is something one knight pays to another for sparing his life. Depending on the value of the knight, the payment can be quite steep. One of our lads is the eldest son of the Duke of North Cumbria. He would fetch a high price were he to be caught.”

Ransom wondered if the boy he’d seen in the great hall was the son. “The Duke of North Cumbria is Lord Wigant.” He was embroiled in an endless war with Atabyrion, attempting to drive them out of the North, and had never had men to spare for King Gervase.

“The same,” said Lord Kinghorn. “His son, James, is worth more than the rest of them combined in terms of wealth and prestige.” The nobleman’s eyes narrowed. “But not in skill at arms. I’m willing to take you in, my boy, but you must prove yourself if you want to stay. Because you are my kinsman, I will have my captain work you harder than the rest. I do the same for James. I have no favorites, and I will not have it said that Lord Kinghorn bestows favors or honors that are undeserved.”

Ransom swallowed, his stomach squirming again. “I came here to earn it, my lord.” Unfortunately, his voice quavered a bit.

“Good. Many of the rowdy youths you passed to get here will not become knights. As you know, there are many orders of knighthood. With some, you must buy your way in. Others honor certain achievements. I am a Vox knight, my boy. Have you heard of it?”

Ransom shook his head no.

Lord Bryon leaned back in his chair, the leather squeaking as he shifted, and steepled his fingers. “‘Vox’ is an ancient word. It means voice. At this castle, you will learn how to fight, to ride a destrier, and you will also learn languages, taxes, and ceremony. But the most important thing you could learn here is to listen to the voice.”

Ransom felt a prickle go down his back. He looked at Lord Kinghorn with confusion and interest.

“The voice of the Fountain,” he said. “One becomes a Vox knight by making a pilgrimage to a holy site. I have done so, and yet I have still not heard the voice. That is why I have all of these.” He gestured to the books. “My efforts continue.”

Ransom felt a little tremble at the words. A giddy excitement began to form inside him. Some deep part of him said that Lord Kinghorn could be trusted.



The first week of training at Averanche castle was the most difficult and enjoyable thing Ransom had ever done. Every night he went to bed sore. He had blisters on his hands from climbing ropes and swinging staves and swords. His legs ached from climbing obstacles, and he’d earned a few bruises in the practice yard. Captain Baldwin was the bearlike man who had shouted at the younger pups to be silent the night Ransom had arrived. After a few days of rough training, even the simple food they were given began to taste delicious. Baldwin was in charge of training the youths, and he fulfilled Lord Kinghorn’s instructions with relish, always making Ransom and James Wigant, whom he mockingly called Jack, work harder than the rest.

Ransom could tell the duke’s son had taken an instant dislike to him. He didn’t know why, other than that James was the unofficial leader of those in training, and everyone usually deferred to him. Ransom was the only one who could beat him in the training yard—and he did it regularly. Did James resent him because he didn’t let him win? Could he not abide being defeated by anyone else?

James had several young men who acted as his personal guard, as if he were already trying to form his own mesnie. On the fourth day, the members of his gang started going out of their way to elbow Ransom in the ribs or shove him without cause. No, there was a cause. They were acting on James’s orders. Ransom ignored the subtle abuse, always done when Baldwin wasn’t looking. One day, the other boys goaded Ransom into telling the tale of how King Gervase had spared his life. The duke’s son listened with interest and then scorn, and at the end of the telling, he said, “He should have launched you from the trebuchet. I would have.”