Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(21)

Ransom shouted it until he was hoarse.

Lord Kinghorn lowered his fist, looking at Ransom. There was a strange expression in his eyes. He was grateful, yes. But there was also a hint of fear as he stared at his young knight and all the dead piled around him.

It was a fear that wormed its way into Ransom’s own heart.





As soon as Da left for Glosstyr, it began. A noble by the name of Purser Dougal came to visit Connaught with a large escort. That was the word he used. And with a name like Purser Dougal, it’s no surprise he turned out to be a complete maggot. I barred the gates and lifted the drawbridge. He demanded the right of hospitality for himself and his men. I did give him a warning before I fired an arrow at his horse. The castellan thought me a bit brazen, but why by the Aos Sí would I invite an armed knight and his retinue into my father’s castle mere days after he left? Lord Purse-Face was angry. He made some threats that Da would not be coming home. I think this attack from Brugia is more than it first appeared. Like in the game of Wizr when you move a piece to draw attention from your real aim.

—Claire de Murrow

Connaught Castle, Kingdom of Legault

(the Isle of Dissembling Eejits)





CHAPTER SEVEN

The Game of Wizr

Ransom paced within the barn, stomping on the dirty straw as he went, but nothing could quell the feeling of unease that thrummed inside him like a taut bowstring. Gemmell nickered impatiently, and he gave his trusted steed a knowing look.

“We have orders, Gemmell. Be patient.”

The rouncy tossed his head in response and kicked up some straw.

The barn door was open, offering a view of the road toward Menonval, which wasn’t far. The family who owned this barn had evacuated their farm after the fighting broke out the previous day. The Brugian knights had retreated but then charged again with even greater numbers. Lord Kinghorn had held the bridge, however, limiting how many horses the Brugians could get across, and the knights of Averanche had won the second conflict.

Sir Beckett had died during that skirmish, along with four other of his cousin’s household knights. But many more of their enemies lay dead. The wounded and those who’d been captured during the fighting were being guarded in a barn in Menonval, watched over by the townsfolk. From the captured men they’d learned the size of the Brugian host that had landed in Westmarch. It wasn’t a raiding party. It was an army.

And it was bearing down on them still.

Until the king sent relief, Lord Kinghorn would hold the road to Menonval. He’d sent a knight to relay information to the king’s couriers, but no support had arrived yet.

One thing Ransom appreciated about his cousin was he always asked his men for counsel before deciding his next move. He had asked his knights what they would do if they were the Brugians and a group of knights blocked their path. It felt like a game of Wizr, only they had no view of the enemy’s position at the moment.

Ransom had been assigned to guard another road leading to Menonval, on the south. James and others had been assigned to watch in other locations. If anyone caught sight of the enemy, they were to raise the alarm, and the rest of the force would converge. But everyone agreed it was more likely the attack would come again at the main road because that was where the bridge lay.

The drone of flies and the musky smell of Gemmell’s manure became irksome, reminding Ransom of his first year at the castle in Averanche’s mucking stables. He wondered why Lord Kinghorn had sent him to watch this road and not kept him with the main body of knights. Everyone seemed to look at him differently since the first battle the previous day. Their eyes held a mixture of fear and respect. He’d killed more Brugian knights than any other warrior serving Lord Kinghorn. Ransom hadn’t even tried to count, but others had done so for him. He felt strangely excited for the Brugians to attack again. Yet that very eagerness worried him. And so did the look in Lord Kinghorn’s eyes.

The clop of hooves came from outside. Gemmell snorted again, hearing it too, and Ransom hurried to the stone-framed window of the barn. The shutters were open, letting in a warm summer breeze. He saw the colors of Brugia, the glint of sunlight off metal armor. His stomach clenched with dread, and he ducked out of sight.

With his back against the wall, he breathed out slowly, trying to calm himself. The Brugian knights were taking his road after all. And he was totally alone. He held up a hand soothingly to Gemmell, lest the horse betray their position with an ill-timed snort. The knights were trying to tread carefully, but it felt like a crowd. He heard a few snickers, the garbled tongue of their people as they bantered with one another. He recognized a few of the words, but James had always been better at languages.

He was supposed to raise the alarm—something that would, in this case, ensure his death. But if he did nothing, they would hit Lord Kinghorn’s knights by surprise. He blinked, trying to tame his rampaging thoughts. One of the knights might search the barn anyway and discover him cowering by the window. That wouldn’t do. He steadied himself, trying to quell the rising panic. He was part of Lord Kinghorn’s mesnie, wasn’t he? He’d been knighted. He owed loyalty to his lord, no matter what the personal consequences.

Ransom quickly went to Gemmell, grabbing and donning his helmet, and then stepped up on a chopping block he’d used to dismount. Gemmell nickered in anticipation, sensing his master’s change in mood. He had no lances, so he unsheathed his sword and gripped it tightly in one hand. He could hear the tromp of knights outside the barn, heading toward Menonval. Ransom licked his lips, casting a thought toward Claire de Murrow, realizing he’d never see her again. He pictured the curious coloring of her hair, the slightly mocking smile on her youthful face.