Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(16)

“Like anything, wooing takes practice, Ransom. Better to practice on a peasant maid than a princess.”

“I’ll keep reading, then,” Ransom said, opening the book and looking down.

“I was joking, Ransom. Joking. Besides, it’s already past sunset, and the fishermen have all hauled in their catches by now. The beach is probably empty, awaiting the tide to come in. You know you don’t want to sit here reading until the candle burns out again. Let’s go outside!”

Ransom hung his head. Sometimes he detested James. Sometimes he tolerated him. But it would never fail to bother him that the education on knightly conduct passed between James’s ears without once getting snared in a cobweb of thought. Honor, duty, loyalty—those were only words to the duke’s son. Virtus. James could say it elegantly, the accent and inflection perfect. But his actions didn’t match.

Ransom shut the book again, and James thumped his palm on the table excitedly and rose. “Finally! He relents! I promise, no wooing, even if we stumble across the mayor’s daughter bathing in the public square. I’ll look away as you would, and we’ll ignore all temptations of the flesh. I promise on my honor as a duke’s son.”

Ransom didn’t believe the oath, but then again, he knew James didn’t either. The two fetched their cloaks, buckled on their swords, and left the room. The smoke-hazed corridor was commonplace to Ransom now. He’d been in Averanche for five years, training to become a knight. He was still half a head taller than James and a full head taller than the other lads, but they’d all grown from gangly youths into more rugged young men trained in the arts of war. Ransom could ride Gemmell through the obstacle course, collecting rings on his lance, better than any of the other students, as well as half the knights who served Lord Kinghorn. While James wore a longsword at his waist, Ransom wore a bastard sword, and he was able to beat Sir Toby at least half the time now. That first year had been a form of torture, but every once in a while, Ransom could hear the rushing of the falls. At those times, the sword seemed to swing itself, and Sir Toby would end up on his back, wide-eyed and startled by his sudden display of skill.

Ransom didn’t know why it happened, and he couldn’t control when it did, but he relished how it made him feel when the other knights stared at him with respect.

At the rear of the castle was a porter door, a thick oaken door with two crossbars. It led to the beach behind the palace. The guard, a man named Harper, lifted the crossbars to let them out.

Heading down the stone steps at a jog, James suddenly broke into a run, determined to beat Ransom down to the bottom. It goaded Ransom enough to take the steps two at a time until he caught up. James kept close to the palace wall before it connected to the cliff wall, the steps continuing down to the beach, and Ransom didn’t want to pass him for fear James might shove him off in a fit of pique. He decided to ram James into the cliff first, and the two nearly tumbled the rest of the way down the steps. Ransom reached the bottom first, but they both arrived laughing.

“You shoved me,” James said between his chuckles. “That wasn’t very honorable.”

“I didn’t want you pushing me off the steps,” Ransom countered.

James looked at him. “The thought did cross my mind. Are you a Wizr?”

“There are no Wizrs anymore,” Ransom scoffed. “Only in the legends we read about. Now, you promised you’d only talk in the old speech. Go on.”

“I did promise, didn’t I? But you don’t think I meant it?”

They began trudging through the sand, accompanied by the hiss of the surf on the beach. The smell of the seawater enveloped Ransom as they walked. The entire beach, including some of the stone steps, would be buried in water within an hour or so. Ransom had come to know the seasons, the telltale signs of the advancing tide. It fascinated him how the pattern changed from day to day, but they were safe for a while still.

Clumps of seaweed and driftwood logs littered the beach. The sun had set, but there was still enough light to see.

“Do you have ambition, Ransom?” James asked after they’d walked and joked for a time.

“What man doesn’t? I know you have plenty for both of us.”

“I do, it’s true,” the young man replied, chuckling. “I’ll inherit Dundrennan. That’s to be expected. But an inheritance won’t satisfy me. That is just an accident of birth. I have four brothers and two sisters. I did nothing to be born first. How many siblings do you have? Just a brother, right?”

“An elder brother. I have a sister as well.”

“Is she pretty?”

Ransom gave him a wary look, and James spluttered with laughter. “Look at your face! Trust me, she’s safe from my evil designs. Is the sister older or younger than you?”

“Younger. She’s thirteen.”

“I was just curious. No, I have my ambition set on Lord Archer’s daughter.”

Ransom felt a little tightening in his chest, just as he did whenever James bragged about the assistance his father had provided hers in reconquering Legault. The thought of James marrying Claire de Murrow made his insides feel rubbery and twisted.

“Being the Duke of North Cumbria isn’t enough. You want to be Duke of Glosstyr too?”

“And why not?” James said. “The king’s power increased when he married Lady Emiloh, the Duchess of Vexin. One could argue it was what helped him win the hollow crown.”