Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(27)

The blow struck Ransom’s heart painfully. Feelings of resentment and worry battled inside him like two furious knights.

“How am I to leave, my lord?” he asked. “My horse is dead.”

“One of the knights gave me a palfrey as a gift out of his winnings. I will give it to you, although you cannot ride him into battle. It is not suitable as a warhorse. You have skills and abilities, Marshall, that would be valuable. Perhaps your mother will furnish the funds you need. I don’t imagine your brother will.”

“He won’t,” Ransom replied darkly.

“The palfrey is stabled with the mayor of Menonval. You may seek him there. My advice is to find a blacksmith willing to repair your armor. Maybe you can work for him for a season to pay for the cost. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“I’m sorry to be a burden on you, my lord,” Ransom said.

Lord Kinghorn shook his head. “You have courage, son. I’m sure it will all work out in the end.”

Ransom nodded and left the tent, feeling ashamed of himself. His insides twisted with agony, regret, and the humiliation of his situation. When he stepped outside, he saw Sir James standing there, not hiding that he had listened in keenly.

“Walk with me a moment,” James said, nodding his head for Ransom to follow.

He did, and the two companions walked away from the tent. A little spark of hope lit within Ransom’s heart. James Wigant was the son of a duke. He’d proven a reliable companion, and while they were very different in temperament, they’d come to respect each other.

Were they friends finally? He wanted to hope, but something about the situation worried him.

“You heard what happened?” Ransom asked him.

“Of course. I wouldn’t have missed that for all the world.”

Ransom looked at him, the spark of hope sputtering.

James gave him another sidelong look. “You want to ask to come with me. Where else would you go? Back to the Heath? My father is wealthy, and we need good knights in the North. Ask me, Ransom. Do you trust me to say yes?”

Something in his words, or perhaps it was the keen look in his eyes, made Ransom hesitate. He did not wish to serve someone like James Wigant, but he was desperate. And Lord Kinghorn’s brusque dismissal still chafed his wounded heart.

“Can I go with you?” Ransom asked.

“Not for all the treasure in the Deep Fathoms,” James replied. He paused, giving Ransom a withering look. “I’ve waited for this day. To see you fail. Oh, how I’ve waited for it! Do you have any idea how many penniless knights there are in this world? Well, at least you know how to kill. You can always kill yourself.”

And with that, James walked away with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.





I’m at the port town of Atha Kleah, where I was waiting for Da to return from Glosstyr. All the miscreant nobles have fled back to their castles and await his return with dread. Richard Archer is not one to be trifled with, and neither is his daughter. Da is back, but the ill news he brought troubles me. We lost some good knights during this war, including some from Averanche. I heard my childhood friend Ransom was spared, thank the Aos Sí, but his luck has gone sour. Lord Kinghorn wouldn’t take him into service in his mesnie, which makes about as much sense as a wingless duck.

Da said Lord Kinghorn sent Ransom home to the Heath. But when Da passed the Heath on his journey back to Glosstyr, they’d none of them heard from him. They didn’t even know he was a knight, let alone one without a lord to serve. Da wished to offer him a position given all the good reports he heard about his performance in battle, but he’s nowhere to be found. I’m worried about him. A knight without loyalty can quickly turn bad, as we witnessed during that awful civil war.

Da also brought word that we’re shortly to get a visitor from Dundrennan. Duke Wigant’s son was also made a knight. I’m already peevish enough.

—Claire de Murrow

Atha Kleah, Kingdom of Legault





CHAPTER NINE

Scarbrow Armory

The noise of birds chirping in the branches roused Ransom from his slumber. He blinked, his hand still squeezed around the hilt of his dagger, as it had been throughout the night. He hadn’t set up his small tent and instead had bedded down in a grove of black pine. The smell of the crushed needles greeted him pleasantly. His stomach growled with hunger. He’d managed to shoot down a single quail for his supper the night before, and it hadn’t been very filling.

The palfrey Lord Kinghorn had given him was still tethered to the tree, and it snorted at him as he sat up and slid the dagger into a sheath. His sword lay next to him. A net containing his ruined armor sat by the tree, along with the other gear he’d brought with him. Letting out a despondent breath, which came in a little puff of mist, he folded his arms over his knees, still aching from the fight and his wounded feelings.

He’d spent many nights sleeping on the ground as a knight in training. A knight had to be able to build a shelter out of branches, forage the wilderness for food, and learn how to find safe water to slake his thirst. But Ransom had always done these things with James and the others. This was the first night he’d spent all alone since he’d left the palace of Kingfountain after King Gervase’s death.

Shame made his cheeks hot again. He was a landless knight who served no one. He’d been well fed in Averanche, with a training yard and peers he could joke with, but now he had nothing. His sword had nicks in it that needed a whetstone’s kiss. His armor was mutilated. That awful feeling inside him persisted, and he had no idea how to soothe it.