Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(36)

He waited, his pulse quickening.

“Ransom? This is your tent, isn’t it?”

The voice sounded vaguely familiar. Warily, he untied the knots of the tent and parted it, preparing himself for attack from James or his henchmen. Even though it was late, there were still many knights out carousing. His eyes had already adjusted to the dark, and he saw a man on one knee outside the door of his tent, but his face was in the shadows.

“Who are you?” Ransom asked. He hadn’t taken off his hauberk or tunic, just his boots.

“William Chappell. You know me.”

Ransom recognized the name, of course, having thought of William frequently over the years. The voice was familiar, but it had been seven years.

“How did you find me?” Ransom asked with doubt.

“Lady Claire revealed it. I serve Lord Dyron Rakestraw. I’m part of his mesnie. He wants to speak with you.”

Ransom couldn’t believe it. He parted the opening wider, eager for a better look at his old friend, and Sir William stood, wearing a hauberk, arm guards, and a sword strapped to his waist. In the moonlight now, his face was recognizable, although much older, more rugged.

“I’m coming,” Ransom said, rising. He quickly tugged on his boots, buckled his own sword on, and ran his hand over the braided bracelet to be sure it was still there.

He ducked out of the tent. As he rose to his full height, Sir William stepped back. “You’re not a boy any longer. Rakestraw said you were as big as a bear. He wasn’t far off.”

Ransom smiled in disbelief. “I came to Chessy looking for you.”

“When?”

“Two years ago. You’d said this was where you’d go.”

“Well, I was here for a while, heard you ended up in Averanche. I’ve served Lord Rakestraw for several years now. He’s a good lord. Come with me.”

“Lead the way,” Ransom said eagerly, amazed by all that had happened in a single day. Looking up at the sky, he saw the confluence of stars and recognized the patterns, from which he’d learned to tell the time and season. It was nearly midnight, yet sleep had never been farther from his mind.

Snores trailed from some of the tents they passed, although knights sat around dwindling fires at other campsites, warming their hands over the coals.

“Were you part of the Brugian war?” Ransom asked.

“I was,” Sir William replied. “Lord Dyron told me about meeting you. When I heard Kinghorn dismissed you, I said we should bring you into our mesnie, but you had vanished. Your time in Occitania might prove to your advantage, however.”

“How so?”

“I won’t reveal my lord’s secrets,” he said, flashing Ransom a grin that only served to heighten his suspense.

It was not a long march to Lord Rakestraw’s pavilion. There were knights and horses camped about it, and he felt a familiar longing to be in a lord’s service again. There were two men guarding the door and several patrolling around it, which Ransom thought odd considering the Black Prince’s men were the watchmen over the camp. He’d noticed them even during their brief walk.

Inside, a brazier of hot coals provided heat and some light. Lord Dyron sat on a camp stool, picking at a roast capon garnished with mint and rosemary. He eyed their arrival and took a drink from his goblet.

“Did I wake you, boy?” he asked, smiling pleasantly.

“Not really,” Ransom answered.

“Oh, I imagine not. Head full of fluff and dreams. I remember being your age, Ransom, although it may not look like it. I served in the king’s mesnie back when he was the Duke of Westmarch. He rewarded me well for my service, as a good lord should do. I won’t sour your dreams of Lady de Murrow with the acid tonic of reality. Enjoy the smell. You’ll likely not get the taste. Agh, but that’s not why I called you here. Sit down.” He gestured to another camp stool opposite him.

Sir William folded his arms and remained by the entrance.

The tent was dark enough that he couldn’t see more than a few shadowed pallets and chests, similar to the tent he’d visited earlier. The slightly flowery scent in the air surprised him, but he didn’t mention it. He listened for the sound of breathing, for the noise of others in the room. Although he saw no one else, it did not feel like they were totally alone. Only the dim glow of the coals helped him see Rakestraw’s bearded face.

“Do you truly serve no one, boy?” he asked quietly, his voice sincere and deep.

“I don’t,” he answered without hesitation. “I have no oath binding me.”

“What of the Occitanian prince? Do you serve him? Are you one of his . . . lackeys?”

“I’m not,” Ransom answered. Nervous energy rattled inside him.

Rakestraw nodded, ripping another piece of the meat from the plate and eating it. “I think you’re honest. Some young men are not. I imagine you are excited to compete in the tournament? Hmmm?”

Ransom shrugged. “I do enjoy competing, yes. I’m good at it too.”

“I don’t begrudge you that, lad. Sir William Chappell over there made a new career out of it himself, after King Gervase died. Loyalty is important to a lord . . . and a king. It was his loyalty to King Gervase that convinced me to bring him on. You were very young during that civil war.” His look darkened. “One by one, Gervase’s men abandoned him. They switched sides and came into Devon’s service. He didn’t trust them unless they earned his trust—after all, if they’d betray a king, might they not betray him if he became one? Eh? You were trained by Lord Kinghorn. He dismissed your service. Are you . . . resentful?”