Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(19)

Ransom couldn’t hold his tongue. “Let’s meet them on the road, my lord. Show them the stuff we’re made of.”

The remark earned a knowing smile from his kinsman. “Aye, lad. That’s what we’ll be doing. We were waiting for the rest of you to catch up so we could go together. We don’t know how many of them there will be, and neither do they know our numbers. They’ve dodged a confrontation so far, seeking to raid and plunder along the way. Finding us in Menonval might be a surprise to them. With any luck, it might cause them to turn heel and flee.” He approached the young men and put a big hand on James’s shoulder. Ransom looked at his companion and saw determination and a hint of fear in his eyes. Good. James no longer saw this as a game. “The road is being watched, and we’ll leave shortly. But not before we’ve taken a moment to invoke the Fountain’s blessing. Today you fight with knights of the realm. Today you will face your foes as knights yourselves. Kneel.”

Ransom’s heart flared with surprise and the warm glow of anticipation. It was an unexpected honor. They each felt they’d earned the rank, but it had to be given and only by one who had authority to give it.

As one, the young men Ransom had trained with dropped to a knee before Lord Kinghorn. Ransom had seen the knighting ceremony as a boy when King Gervase had granted the honor to some of his men-at-arms. But that was at the palace of Kingfountain, amidst pomp and decorum. Trumpets had blared. The thing he remembered best was the way each knight had been struck across the cheek as part of the ceremony. The blow was known as the collier.

Lord Kinghorn crossed his gauntlets in front of him and bowed his head. “May fortune shine on us this day. Grant us courage and determination. Banish our fears. We fight in the name of our king, His Majesty, Devon Argentine, defending our land, our homes, and our most precious treasure . . . our families. Let us do no murder, speak no falsehoods, and stand bold before our enemies. In the name of Our Lady we pray. Amen.”

“Amen,” came the united response. Ransom felt a chill go down his spine. In his ears, far away, he heard the murmur of the falls outside Kingfountain.

Lord Kinghorn went to James first. “James Wigant, heir to the duchy of North Cumbria. I bestow on you the order of knighthood. You are hereby permitted to kill in the king’s name, the sin be on his head and not yours. Prepare to receive the gift of the collier.” James clenched his jaw, tightened his fists, and Lord Kinghorn backhanded him across the face with his gauntlet. A little cut tore at James’s cheek, followed by a dribble of blood. The look of shock on James’s face shifted to anger, and then satisfaction. The blow hadn’t knocked him down.

Lord Kinghorn looked at all the young men kneeling, one by one. “The collier is a symbol. It is the last blow you will receive without being allowed a reprisal. If any man strikes you hence, you have the freedom to strike back.” He held up his finger, which gleamed in the torchlight. “But while a knight may strike back, a true knight will yield that right. He will resist. It is a token of Virtus to be able to exact revenge and to choose mercy instead.”

He approached Ransom next. “Marshall Barton, son of Lord Barton of the Heath. I bestow on you the order of knighthood. You are hereby permitted to kill in the king’s name, the sin be on his head and not yours. Prepare to receive the gift of the collier.”



They rode south from Menonval. Ransom’s heart burned with pride at the honor bestowed upon him. Lord Kinghorn’s gauntlet had struck his brow, but it had not bled. The small pulse of pain he’d felt was nothing compared to what he’d endured in the training yard. Excitement to face the enemy coursed through him. He nudged Gemmell’s flanks to increase the horse’s speed and passed Sir Gordon on the road. They were all knights now, of the same rank and station. Sir Gordon glanced at him in annoyance, but Ransom didn’t care. He’d beaten Gordon many times in the training yard. And the desire to be at the front of the ranks was overpowering.

Ransom passed another few, gaining on the leaders, which included the surly Sir Jude. Trees grew on the right side of the road before it bent, offering a blind spot to hide the presence of the Brugian knights. He felt certain a trap was waiting for them there, but it would have felt impudent to say so given that the others were so much more experienced. Surely they knew better than he did. Still, if there was to be trouble, he wanted to be in the thick of it. It almost felt like he needed it.

Soon he’d passed all but three other knights. When he tapped Gemmell again to quicken his pace, he heard Lord Kinghorn’s stern reprimand.

“Barton! Get back. Let these knights pass!”

The reproof stung his feelings and made his cheeks flush with shame. He loosened his grip on the reins, allowing the older knights to pass him, and Sir Gordon offered a smirk as he passed by. Ransom’s ears were burning inside his helmet. Wasn’t he a knight too? He was so humiliated he dared not look at Lord Kinghorn’s face.

James reached Ransom and slowed a bit. “So anxious to die?” he asked with a provoking smile.

Ransom seethed, but he didn’t say anything. Now that the younger knights were catching up, he allowed himself to increase his pace again, passing in front of James and the slowest of the older knights. He expected the skirmish would start as soon as they reached the trees.

But there was no skirmish. The road bent around the woods and continued toward a distant bridge. Farm fields lay around the woods, with locals using small teams of horses in their labors.