Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(18)

“You sound pretty sure of yourself,” Ransom said. He itched beneath his armor, but there was no way to scratch it, so he endured the discomfort.

“As I said, politics is my domain.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I’m a Wigant. By Our Lady, I’ve been waiting for this!”

Ransom thought it strange that the young man should blaspheme the Lady when they were all in dire need of her blessing.

“Jack! Ransom!” Baldwin bellowed. “Stop being cuttlefish! Mount your maggoty horses already!”





A messenger arrived from the court of Kingfountain. Da must leave and return to Glosstyr at once. There’s been a skirmish in Westmarch, and King Devon is summoning his vassals and preparing to repulse the Brugian invaders. There is no Duke of Westmarch still, for the king holds that title himself and hasn’t yet invested it in one of his four sons. There’s talk that his eldest, his namesake, will get it, and that the next youngest brother will inherit his mother’s duchy in the Vexin. But they are young lads and still training to be knights themselves. They’re not ready for war.

Da is concerned about leaving me at Connaught castle, but I’ve told him it will be better if I stay to defend it while he’s gone. I’d love it if some half-mad Gaultic noble tried to siege us. Maybe that’s one of the reasons Da doesn’t want me to stay. So I won’t provoke a fight. I wouldn’t do that, obviously—I’m no fool eejit. But I won’t run from one either. It will take time for him to summon men in Glosstyr.

Meanwhile, King Devon is sending his faithful knights in Westmarch into battle. Ransom is probably one of them. I haven’t seen him in five years, yet I still remember him. I hope he doesn’t do anything headstrong or barmy. War is a deadly game. Even the best players are caught unawares. Don’t be an eejit, Ransom Barton. But I wonder if you can help yourself.

—Claire de Murrow

Connaught Castle, Kingdom of Legault





CHAPTER SIX

Knights of Averanche

The countryside of Westmarch was lush and beautiful, but the heat that built up within Ransom’s armor stifled him. None of the soldiers wore helmets, though these were within easy reach, as were two ash-wood lances fixed within saddle harnesses. Farmers and other travelers cleared the road for the knights as they rode through, but Ransom had never felt dustier in his life.

They reached the village of Menonval, where Lord Kinghorn and the full company of his knights were billeted for the evening. Their horses were all secured in front of the mayor’s manor, which had the look of a castle but lacked any fortifications. Two rounded towers flanked the main door, a double-wide oak structure that wouldn’t stand long against a battering ram. The towers were brick and had cone-shaped peaks. The walls, constructed of wood and mud, were highly sloped with soot stains and ivy creeping on them.

Ransom and the others dismounted, and a page hurried up to take Gemmell’s reins. Captain Baldwin gave some orders to the youths about caring for the horses. Ransom was surprised to see the other war horses had not yet been stabled, but perhaps the mayor lacked sufficient space for them all. One by one, the young men entered the building through the huge oak doors. Ransom was weary but excited to join the knights he knew from training. Sir Jude was leaning against a wall near the entrance, a scowl on his face. Sir Gordon and Sir Beckett were at hand as well, along with several others. They all had serious, concerned expressions. Despite the blazing fire in the hearth, there was a distinct chill in the room.

Lord Kinghorn stood in the center of the room, his helmet resting in the crook of his arm, his eyes somber.

Something was wrong.

Captain Baldwin pushed his way in, past the young men, and immediately noticed the mood.

“We’ve arrived, my lord,” he said gruffly. “Why does everyone look so greensick? Is there a plague in this village?”

The lord of Averanche didn’t smile at the attempted jest. “You arrived not a moment too soon, Baldwin. We’ve not been here long ourselves. A courier from the constable of Westmarch arrived shortly after we did to warn the mayor.”

“The constable?” Baldwin asked, eyebrows furrowing.

“Aye. The Brugians evaded his army. They’ve penetrated deeper than expected and intend to go farther yet, keeping us guessing as to their intentions. Their advance should reach Menonval soon. We’re all that stand in the way of them pillaging the countryside.”

The news explained the somber expressions on everyone’s faces. Ransom felt a prickle of apprehension. He wanted to ask how many were coming, but he didn’t want to seem a coward. He wasn’t afraid to face their enemies. This was what he had spent years training for. He wanted to go back and mount his horse, worried that the enemy would arrive while they were standing around.

“Bad tidings,” Baldwin said. “What will we do?”

“I’ve had counsel from my knights,” Lord Kinghorn said, “but I’d hear your thoughts, old friend.”

The captain sniffed and adjusted his belt. He was a big man, and he’d been in many battles during the civil war. “This is the king’s home duchy. I reckon he’ll want us to defend it on his behalf. Let’s fight the maggots.”

Lord Kinghorn smiled. His eyes wandered over the young men who had just arrived. Was he worried about them? His face betrayed no emotion.