Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(23)

“Tomorrow, it might be over,” Rakestraw continued. “I want you to keep holding that bridge and blocking Menonval. Don’t let them get past you. Watch for a full retreat. It’s night, but I can’t count on them sitting still when they can move without being seen. No one in camp sleeps tonight. Everyone must be alert and ready with a sword in hand. That means you too, young Ransom. Stand watch with the stars in the sky. Even a bear caught in a trap is dangerous. Be wary.”

“Of course, Dyron,” Lord Kinghorn said. “Is the king coming?”

“Is the king coming?” guffawed the constable. “He’s at Folkestone hoping to catch them there in case they try to escape that way.”

Ransom wondered if he would get a chance to meet the king again before the fighting was over. Although he’d felt bitter toward Devon Argentine after King Gervase’s death, he knew Lord Kinghorn had served him loyally in Westmarch. Judging by his cousin’s character, he thought he might actually come to respect the first Argentine king, even if his loyalty to King Gervase kept him from liking the man.

“Well done, Bryon. You’ve trained them well.”

As they left the tent, Ransom breathed in the fresh air. Although he mourned their losses, he felt good about himself, about the events of the day. In his heart, he hoped he had proven himself enough that Lord Kinghorn might consider taking him into his mesnie. Normally, after a young man was knighted, he was sent back to his father, having earned the status he’d set out to achieve, but Ransom doubted he would be welcomed at the Heath.

“I’m sorry you’ve lost so many men,” Ransom said as they walked side by side back to their horses.

“Thank you,” his cousin replied in a distracted way.

Ransom risked a look at the other man. Lord Kinghorn’s expression was brooding, and he decided not to speak again. They mounted their horses and rode back to the bridge where the other knights of Averanche awaited them.

When they arrived, Lord Kinghorn gave orders that no one was to sleep, which earned some groans and grumbles from the tired men who had fought hard that day. The mayor of Menonval had brought food to eat, so Ransom enjoyed the remainder of what was left. Then he was given his orders to patrol the area during the night, looking for signs of the enemy, but the others felt confident the Brugians had retreated.

Ransom did his night sentry duty without complaint, riding Gemmell at a leisurely pace. The stars shifted in their nightly dance, and the moon finally rose. With his visor up, Ransom smelled the night air, feeling a little chilled beneath the layers of armor, but it wasn’t cold enough to produce mist from his mouth when he breathed.

After a time, weariness started to settle on Ransom, who had not rested since the battle earlier. He took the side road and passed Sir Gordon, who was on his way back from his rounds. They nodded to each other in passing. Farther down the road, Ransom saw the barn he’d hidden in earlier. He decided to give his steed a little rest and thought the barn might be a good place to conceal himself again and watch from the window. The farmer and his family still hadn’t returned and probably wouldn’t until the threat had passed. As Ransom rode up, he saw the scuff marks in the ground where the battle had raged. A few broken links of mail were scattered here and there. The bodies had been dragged away by the townspeople earlier.

Ransom leaned forward in the saddle, resting his arms on Gemmell’s neck. The sky to the east was just beginning to brighten, although dawn was still a ways off. Ransom almost dismounted and walked Gemmell the rest of the way to the barn, but he thought that might not be a good idea. He guided his rouncy to the dark void of the open doors and smelled the straw.

As the shadow of the barn fell on him, he breathed in again.

And smelled sweat.

A prickle of warning went down his spine. He reached for the hilt of his sword. But before he’d drawn it from the scabbard, he saw movement in the shadows as men on foot rushed him. A man with a pole and hook appeared at his side, and he felt the snag of its tip pierce his shoulder guard, gripping the metal chain links beneath it. They swarmed Ransom, trying to get him off his horse.

One of them brandished a knife.





Word has arrived that the conflict ended, and abruptly too, I should say. I don’t think poncy Lord Dougal had time to return to his little stone hut before a courier from Da arrived with word that he was on his way back from Glosstyr. King Devon’s forces have already routed his enemies in Westmarch, it seems. Mayhap it was a test of the Argentine king, to see if he would defend his lands with iron or feather. The answer was iron. Apparently the knights of Averanche did some noble feats and withstood the full brunt of the Brugian army alone. So everyone is returning to their castles. Many knights from the Brugian order of St. Felix will be ransomed for a hefty sum, making the defeat all the more ignominious. I love that word. “Ignominious.” I found that one in an ancient record on the shelves in Kingfountain. I wish knights were trained in matching wits as much as they’re trained in matching swords.

Another courier just arrived bearing sad news. Lord Barton is dead. When first I saw the note, I dreaded it was news of his son, Ransom. But it was about the sire, not the son. He died in an accident while trying to leave his castle to join the king’s war. Ransom’s brother is now the master of the Heath. Poor Ransom. Maybe I will send him a letter. Would that I could do more to ease his pain.