Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(25)

Gemmell knelt down, thrashing his mane and letting out an unearthly shriek. The animal’s suffering wrenched Ransom’s heart. The eye stared at him almost pleadingly. For a moment, Ransom just stood there, sword still in his hand, while tears of anger and anguish seared his eyes. Keening, the animal lay down, and Ransom knelt beside him. He didn’t want to deliver the mercy blow, but the spear thrust had probably been fatal from the start. If he wanted to live, he needed to move, and he could not, would not, leave Gemmell behind to suffer. Tears streaming down his cheeks, he delivered his trusted horse from its anguish.

Ransom rose, debating whether he should let the men-at-arms reach him. He wanted to kill each and every one of them. But the emptiness inside him deepened. He knew, in his core, that if he waited for them, he would die. So he trudged away, leaving behind Gemmell and all his coin and gear, walking back to the camp a defeated man.



It was dawn when Ransom reached the bridge to Menonval. Sir Jude was posted as sentry and saw the beleaguered knight arrive, armor twisted and bent, dragging his sword with him.

“What happened to you, lad?”

“Ambush,” Ransom panted. “At the barn.”

Sir Jude whistled sharply, drawing attention from others. Other knights approached, their expressions showing concern and disbelief at seeing Ransom arrive in such a condition.

“How many?” Jude demanded.

“About a dozen. Men-at-arms, not knights.”

“They caught you alone?”

Ransom nodded, too exhausted, too grieving to reply.

“Come on, lad, let’s get you to Sir Bryon.”

Gripping Ransom’s arm, he hastened him to the command tent where Lord Kinghorn sat on a stool, eating some breakfast with the mayor of Menonval. Lord Kinghorn’s eyes were bleary from lack of sleep, and when he saw Ransom’s state, he rose from the camp stool in alarm.

“What happened?”

“Ambush, my lord,” said Sir Jude. “At the barn.”

“The same barn we fought at yesterday?”

Jude looked at Ransom, who nodded.

“Jude, take five knights and go scout the area. They may be stragglers or perhaps they’re simply lost. Secure the barn and report back.”

“Aye, my lord,” said Sir Jude. He released Ransom’s arm, offered a salute, and left.

The mayor looked pityingly at Ransom. The mayor had been supplying food and relief to Lord Kinghorn’s knights. He wasn’t obligated to do so, but it was wise to feed the men you counted on for defense.

Lord Kinghorn walked around Ransom in a circle. “Your armor has been severely damaged, lad. Are you injured? I’m not sure if any of this blood on you is yours or from the previous battles.”

Ransom was weary, but he didn’t feel pain. “I don’t think they got through.”

“But you were struck with repeated blows. There are dents everywhere.”

“I know,” he answered, wishing the mayor would leave.

“Go get some rest,” Lord Kinghorn said.

“Our orders were to stay awake,” Ransom said, looking at him.

“You’re exhausted. I’ll have someone tend your horse. Go get some sleep.”

Pain bloomed in his heart. “Gemmell . . . my horse . . . is dead.”

Lord Kinghorn looked crestfallen. “Indeed, that’s a shame. I’m sorry, lad. Losing a horse is a terrible blow. A knight isn’t a knight without one.” He put his hand on Ransom’s shoulder. “Get some rest. Take some food. Here. Have the whole platter.”

“I’ll not ruin your breakfast, my lord,” Ransom said. Truly, he wasn’t hungry.

He went to his tent and struggled to take off his armor, eventually succumbing to the need to ask a page for help. It took a while, and when he saw it laid out before him, all bent and misshapen where the soldier with the hook had snagged him, he frowned and realized the cost of repairing it would be tremendous. When he was finally unencumbered, he flopped onto his bedroll and shut his eyes.

He was asleep in moments.

When he awoke again, he heard the grunt of horses outside the tent. His head felt dull. That feeling of emptiness persisted. He rubbed his cheeks, feeling the stubble there, and glanced at the set of broken armor. Grabbing a water skin, he took a little drink from it and realized it was nearly empty. He rose, pulled on his damaged hauberk, then buckled on his sword belt. He left the tent and found the men breaking up camp. Most of the tents were down, and pages were stowing the gear. He saw his companions, his fellow knights, joking and laughing with one another.

Mace, one of the boys he’d trained with these last five years, approached with a friendly smile. “We won, Ransom! The king’s army struck the decisive blow. They captured the Brugian lord who was in command before he could escape.” He grinned and patted Ransom on the back. “Sorry about your horse, though. Everyone feels bad about it. Oh, and Lord Kinghorn wanted to see you when you woke.”

“Thanks, Mace,” Ransom said. The news of the victory was welcome enough to help settle some of his grief for Gemmell. He walked back to Lord Kinghorn’s tent and went inside. Lord Kinghorn was talking with James. The duke’s son still wore his armor, and it looked spattered with mud and other signs of the fighting. He nodded to Lord Kinghorn and then glanced at Ransom.

“By all means, you may return to Dundrennan if you wish,” said Lord Kinghorn. “You acquitted yourself well, Sir James. And you brought back six captured knights you can bargain with for their ransoms. Two additional horses as well. You’ve done well on your first campaign.”