Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(13)

—Claire de Murrow

Glosstyr Keep

(final entry before embarking on a journey to my true home)





CHAPTER FOUR

The Sound of the Falls

When the boot struck Ransom’s stomach, it hurt and made him gasp for breath as it woke him. Another solid blow to his spine followed, and he knew he was in trouble. With his eyes squinting from the pain, he couldn’t make out how many there were, but there were at least four. Maybe five. They’d caught him blind with that staff, and his arms still throbbed from absorbing the blow.

“Bring him into the alley,” snarled the voice of James Wigant in an undertone.

Two of the lads hauled Ransom up by the arms to drag him there, where only more pain and humiliation awaited. Sweat had already soaked his braided tunic from the workout in the yard, but he felt something sticky on his brow and saw red in his left eye. Breathing was a challenge, but he managed to suck in some air despite the pain.

Surprisingly, Ransom felt no fear. The pain faded quickly, and his mind suddenly became as crisp as the air on a winter’s morning. The thumping of his pulse in his ears slowed, and it almost sounded like a rush of water from the falls outside Kingfountain. Was it a memory? Whatever it was, he buried himself in it, remembering the power of the falls, the beautiful and violent swath of waters that had taken away the canoe bearing his king. An image flashed in his mind of that canoe, of the still corpse that lay inside. The love he’d felt for Gervase thrummed in his heart.

Ransom found his feet and shoved one of his assailants into the edge of the wall before they could drag him into the gap of the alley. The young man grunted in pain and let go. With his newly freed hand, he clenched a fist and punched the other fellow who was restraining him in the jaw, dropping him with a single blow. Ransom lifted his head, feeling one of his eyes swelling shut, and saw three more in front of him, including Wigant’s heir. A look of surprise flitted across that usually smug face as Ransom tackled the duke’s son into the alley wall.

The two slammed into the side of the stables, and horses inside began to complain noisily. James’s head slammed back into the wall a second time before the others grabbed Ransom and yanked him away. He saw the staff coming toward his face and ducked at the last moment. The blow that had been intended for him struck one of the others instead, making the youth slump to the ground. It was a boy named Bart who held the staff, and Ransom charged him. They wrestled with it a moment before Ransom flung him into the side of the stables.

James tackled Ransom onto the cobblestones, and his fist collided with Ransom’s skull twice. The pain was jarring, but Ransom still felt that odd, invigorating sensation. Despite his injuries, he felt full of energy. Brimming with it. He rolled to one side, and James barked in pain as his fist hit the stones instead. Ransom twisted and managed to kick James in the stomach, knocking him backward. That gave Ransom the chance to make it back to his feet, and suddenly he sensed someone behind him—Bart with the reclaimed staff. The sensation came too late, though, and the wooden weapon slid across his front and pinned him to Bart’s body.

“Hit him! Hit him!” Bart shouted in his ear.

Another youth, Delbert Finn, arrived first and began hammering his fists into Ransom’s stomach. Strangely, the blows caused no pain at all. It was like all the hurt was being forced into a small corner of Ransom’s mind. After the fourth blow, he still felt nothing, so he rocked his head back into Bart’s face and then shoved forward, freeing himself. Delbert gaped in surprise before Ransom punched him in the nose so hard the lad fell to the ground in a heap.

James stared at Ransom in alarm. Four other boys lay sprawled in the alley. His henchmen had all lost the will for this fight. James pressed his wounded hand against his own chest, his face betraying both cowardice and hatred.

Ransom breathed hard, but he didn’t back down.

“You served the traitor king,” James seethed. “He stole the hollow crown. You don’t deserve to be here.”

Ransom had no words. The accusation of King Gervase being a traitor sent a bolt of white-hot anger into his mind. He rushed forward and knocked James down, pummeling him over and over. Blood oozed from the broken nose. Finally, Ransom stopped. He found himself kneeling on James’s body, hand cocked back for another punch, which he did not deliver. The lad was thoroughly defeated.

Ransom rose and turned around, fist still poised to deliver another blow. The other lads shrunk from him. One was crying. He studied their faces, one by one, meeting their eyes and delivering an unspoken warning. If they ever tried that again, he would not restrain himself. He tasted blood in his mouth.

The pain he’d boxed within his mind began to squirm free. His arms and fists ached. So did his torso and back. There would be bruises—oh, there would be many bruises! There were five of them in all, including the duke’s son writhing on the ground. Five against one. Ransom couldn’t believe he’d beaten them all. He shouldn’t have been able to do that. The rushing noise of the falls receded. A seabird squealed in the distance, reminding him that he was in Averanche, not Kingfountain.

He walked out of the alley, trying not to limp. Everything hurt, but the satisfaction that he’d not been thrashed by Wigant and his henchmen filled his mouth with a sweet taste. It felt wonderful.

Even though it hurt.



Ransom leaned against the battlements, his arms resting on a blocky merlon as he stared out to sea. The sun was setting in the west, and the spire of a sanctuary caught his eye along the western coast—Our Lady of Toussan, off the shores of Brythonica. If he looked to the east, he saw St. Penryn. As he glanced from one to the other, he felt drawn to them. Now that the fight was over, he’d cleaned himself up, and his entire body ached with pain, he wondered if he’d need to seek sanctuary in one of those places to keep the duke’s son from killing him.