Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(22)

A strange feeling rippled through his soul. Then he heard the distant churn of the waterfall of Kingfountain. He pictured King Gervase’s body, stiff and gray, hefted in a canoe atop a row of staves. He thought of Sir William, who had been part of the guard who had honored the dead king. No one would be there for Ransom. He’d be buried near a barn.

But he would die in pursuit of his duty. There was honor in that.

Clenching his teeth, he raised the visor of his helmet and nudged Gemmell to the door. For an instant, the world went still. He felt and heard his own heartbeat. As his steed reached the open door of the barn, he saw the Brugian knights spread out before him, blocking the road and stretching far into the distance. A knight pointed an arm at him. Someone shouted in warning.

“Attack!” Ransom screamed, hoisting his sword into the air as if he were leading an army himself. “Attack! Averanche! Averanche! Averanche!”

He slammed his visor down and kicked Gemmell hard, leaning forward in the saddle as his steed burst forward. He was on the enemy knights in a moment, clashing swords with the first of them. Gemmell shrieked in the fury of battle, hooves flailing. The rushing noise of the falls filled Ransom’s ears as he toppled one man off his charger. Then another. Whipping around, he screamed the battle cry again, brandishing his blade. Some of the knights had turned and started to ride away. Others converged on him. Ransom fought like a madman, butting into his foes with his knees. He felt steel blades hammer against his back, his arms. Still he fought, lashing out at anyone within reach, slicing through greaves, striking with the butt of his bastard sword, using Gemmell as a weapon too. He saw Gemmell take a bite out of another horse.

Thunder rumbled. Ransom thought that strange since the sky was so blue. He clashed with another knight, disarming him in a single blow, and the man kicked out of his stirrups and leaped off his horse, scrambling in the dust to get away. A blow struck the back of Ransom’s helmet, hard enough that it should have dazed him. It didn’t. He turned and caught another attack, blocking it with his blade.

And then he saw Lord Kinghorn riding toward him at a full gallop, surrounded by the knights of Averanche. The thunder he heard wasn’t from the sky, it was from the hooves of his companions. Ransom felt a spark of hope. Maybe he wouldn’t die this day after all. A burly knight bore down on him. The man looked strong, and he wielded his weapon well, but Ransom felt no fear. He thrust his blade into the man’s helmet.

“Averanche! Averanche! Averanche!” called the others as they descended like eagles to strike their prey. The Brugians broke ranks and fled.



The constable of Westmarch was a knight named Dyron Rakestraw. He had been a knight of Devon Argentine’s mesnie for many years and many seasons. Although Lord Kinghorn was older, the constable outranked him, and now that he and his men had arrived, he was in command. He had also summoned both Lord Kinghorn and Ransom to call upon him, a fact that made Ransom feel both anxious and excited as the two stood opposite the constable’s command tent. The guards posted outside it opened the door and bid them enter. As they did so, Ransom took in the well-lit interior of the tent, which had luxurious fur rugs and a hefty camp cot for its occupant.

“Ah, Bryon, well met,” said Dyron with a broad smile. The man had a bushy beard and close-cropped hair. He was a giant of a man, comparable in size to Captain Baldwin. “Is this the lad, then?”

“Yes, this is Marshall Barton,” Lord Kinghorn said, introducing Ransom.

The constable rose from his stool and tapped his thumb against his left breast twice, the same salute William had given Ransom all those years ago, although now he had earned it. His cheeks flushed as he mimicked the gesture.

“Greetings, lad. You’re the one they called the King’s Ransom. I saw you at Gervase’s funeral. You were a stripling then. Look at you now. You’ll be big, like Lord Barton, I’m sure. Not done growing yet.” His bushy eyebrows were nearly as expressive as his eyes, showing his sense of humor. He turned again to Lord Kinghorn. “He’s the one who stopped the ambush earlier today?”

“He is. Stood alone against the front line of knights.”

“Impossible,” chuckled the constable. “When did you knight him?”

“Yesterday. He’s earned it.”

“By the Lady, he has! I wanted to tell you so myself. Well done, boy. We were closing in behind the Brugians, trying to harry them before they could get to you. Tricky devils, they are. Kept feinting and pretending their host was somewhere else. But they thought they were facing the full might of the king’s army, so they tucked tail and retreated. Think we have them surrounded now, but they might try to slip back to Folkestone and escape. Or they may try leaving through Occitania. Can’t be sure which road they’ll take.”

“What would you like us to do?” Lord Bryon asked.

Ransom was keen to hear every word. He still could not believe he’d been invited to visit the command tent. He tried to keep from smiling like a fool.

“How many have you lost in this action?” Rakestraw asked.

“Eight knights. Five more wounded. The rest are pretty battered, but we’re ready to fight.”

“Good. I need fighters right now. Glosstyr is coming, but he won’t arrive for days.”

Ransom’s chest pulsed when he heard that name. Surely Claire wouldn’t be with him, but her father would hear about his exploits on the battlefield. Perhaps he’d tell her. He felt soreness across his body and knew there’d be bruises, but he was ready for another day of fighting.