Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(34)

“Where is your tent?” she asked him.

“It’s behind Scarbrow Armory,” he said.

“The blacksmith, of course. At least I’ll know where to find you when I send for you.”

He couldn’t help but smile. He would love to serve Lord Richard Archer, Duke of Glosstyr. Especially if it meant being near Claire. His motivation to do well at the tournament intensified.

“Are you staying at the edge of Chessy, then?” Ransom asked, recognizing that they were nearly to the border of the Bois de Meridienne.

“Yes, near the woods. We were invited as guests of the Duchess of Brythonica.”

Ransom spotted pennants with the Raven on them and headed in that direction. They were allowed in without question, and Claire walked with purpose toward the larger tent. He heard laughter and chatter in the language of the realm, and one of the voices sounded familiar.

Claire stopped abruptly. “Oh, of all the wormy vipers . . .” she muttered darkly.

He followed her gaze to the tent, where he saw James Wigant standing near some horses, looking at Ransom with all the coldness of a winter’s dawn.





I believe there might be some ill blood between Sir James Wigant and Sir Ransom Barton.

—Claire de Murrow

Chessy Field, Kingdom of Occitania





CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Constable’s Secret

Ransom’s mood soured at the sight of his old companion lingering outside Claire’s pavilion. Seeing the familiar face, the narrowed contemptuous eyes, brought back a rush of old feelings that he had worked hard to suppress. Yes, Claire knew him too, but she didn’t seem overly fond of him. That, at least, was a partial relief.

As they approached the tent together, James managed to regain some control of his expression and offered a gallant bow to Glosstyr’s daughter.

“A pleasant evening, Lady Claire. I’d hoped to see you before taking the field.”

“And why is that, Sir James?” Claire responded with cold courtesy. “Were you hoping I’d bestow a favor on you?”

Ransom’s heart bristled at the mention. A lady’s favor was a token of some sort, something to be worn during the tournament as a mark of preference.

“I would never presume such intimacy.” His eyes shifted to her companion. “Hello, Ransom. Boon companions reunited at last.”

Ransom felt his hand clenching into a fist of its own accord. He was grateful to be wearing his hauberk, wondering if the viper might strike. “Good evening, my lord,” he replied curtly.

“‘My lord’? Why the formality?” He came forward, assuming a new guise, that of an old friend. “We were the closest friends while in service to Lord Kinghorn. No one could best Ransom in the training yard.”

“Or by the stables,” Ransom added, feeling anger ripple beneath his calm exterior.

James took the reminder in stride. “Or that,” he conceded. He stood in front of them now, his eyes going back to Claire’s. His gloved hand brushed her elbow. “Might I see you later?”

She looked down at his hand, her brow furrowing with annoyance. “I think not, Sir James.” She tightened her grip on Ransom’s arm and moved closer to him. “Where are you camped? If I wish to see you, I will send for you.”

He smiled and inclined his head slightly. “I’m staying at an inn down the road. The Oxnard. I’ll have time to spare before the tournament starts in two days.”

Ransom knew it. Although he’d done well these last years, he couldn’t have afforded to stay there.

“Well, have a pleasant evening, then,” Claire said, tugging Ransom with her toward the pavilion’s entrance.

“How can it be pleasant without your company?” James said. His eyes launched daggers at Ransom.

Claire ignored the comment and pushed aside the curtain of the pavilion, muttering under her breath, “I’m sure you’ll buy something that pleases you.”

As they entered, there was no opportunity to continue their conversation, for there was already one happening inside. Ransom recognized Lord Archer. Memory had enshrined him as an impressively huge man, but Ransom found himself nearly meeting his eyes. He was speaking with Lord Rakestraw, the constable of Westmarch, whom Ransom had last seen two years prior. The constable still ruled the duchy for King Devon, who had not bestowed his dukedom on anyone, instead preserving the power and authority for himself.

The interior of the pavilion was spacious, with a central main tent, where the two lords were speaking, as well as two cordoned-off sections boasting stuffed pallets and fur blankets. Chests had been arranged in orderly rows in each of these areas, and the duke’s armor and sword gleamed from an armor rack on one side. Ransom also noticed some portable camp tables, one of which boasted a small coffer full of silver livres.

Both men turned their attention to the entrance as Claire and Ransom entered together. The duke’s eyes looked at Claire with something akin to disappointment, and then he noticed her hand on Ransom’s arm. His nostrils flared.

She released Ransom and glided forward before dropping a curtsy in front of Lord Rakestraw and her father. “Greetings, my lords! Lord Dyron—I have not seen you in several years. Allow me to introduce you to—”

“I know the lad already,” Rakestraw said. He appraised Ransom with a friendly eye and a genuine smile. “Barton’s second son. We met during the Brugian affair, lass. Attacked a company of knights on his own while rallying the men of Averanche. Brave and bold. I’ve never forgotten it.”