Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(40)

“Who is it?” Sir William asked, turning his destrier around.

“Do you recognize them, my lady?” Lord Dyron asked in a nervous tone.

The queen’s face had gone pale, paler than the cream riding gloves sheathing her arms. She gazed at the approaching men, who were not far behind them. The other knights clustered around her.

“I don’t see any banners. They’re trying to stop us before we reach Auxaunce.”

“How far is the castle?” Rakestraw asked.

“A league . . . maybe two. Our horses are winded. If it comes down to a chase, they’ll overtake us.”

The constable’s brow furrowed with anger. “Someone saw us. Got word out.”

“How could they have caught up so quickly?” the queen asked. “No one knew we were coming. We sent no message ahead of us for fear it might be intercepted by Lewis’s spies.”

“We can’t argue about this, my lady. Ride on to Auxaunce. Send knights back to help us. We’ll hold them here.”

Ransom’s stomach shriveled at the thought. There were at least forty to fifty riders bearing down on them.

“We can parlay with them,” the queen suggested.

The constable shook his head. “Any parlay will lead to your capture and ransom. My orders from the king were to see you safely to Auxaunce. We fight them here and hold the road. If they try crossing the hedges, it’ll slow them down. Go!”

The queen looked at him fiercely, then nodded. She leaned forward in the saddle and urged her horse into a gallop, launching back down the road. Ransom wanted to go with her, to see she made it safely, but he was duty bound to follow the constable’s orders.

“They’re not slowing down, my lord,” announced one of the knights, his voice grim.

“And we’re not budging,” Rakestraw said. He turned his destrier around and hefted his lance from its sheath. They each had only one. Ransom pulled his out as well. His stomach churned with dread at the approaching conflict. He could see the knights more clearly as they charged forward, most of them wearing full armor. The glint of metal was not from polish. These were battle-hardened knights with mud and dirt spattered on their shields.

Rakestraw’s knights formed a line, four across and two deep, blocking the road.

Ransom gripped his lance, feeling his ears tingle, his skin begin to itch. The constable’s knights only wore hauberks, which would not stop the tip of a sharpened lance. That meant their only chance was to strike first and unhorse their foes with better skill.

“On the ready,” Lord Rakestraw said.

Ransom saw the look of dread in the eyes of his fellows. But they faced the task without flinching. The road shuddered under the force of the stampede. Ransom licked his lips, glancing down at the bracelet attached to his forearm. He brought it up to his mouth and kissed it.

“Onward!” shouted Lord Rakestraw. “In the queen’s name!”

The constable led the charge. The destriers snorted and plunged their hooves into the dirt. Ransom gritted his teeth as Manhault surged forward in the second row. He felt the lapping waters inside his chest, heard the noise of the falls in his ears. As one, the eight warriors of Westmarch charged against the larger host. Ransom’s fear left him. He stared at the front row of enemies, wondering which knight he’d face first.

The two groups collided. Ransom saw the tip of a lance come through Lord Rakestraw’s back as it hoisted him off his horse. He blinked in shock, unable to believe it. A man of the constable’s rank would be worth a hefty ransom. Who in their right mind would kill him straightaway?

That’s when he realized that they were all dead men.





I’m sick inside. Ransom is gone, and no one knows what has become of him.

I sought him out the morning of the tournament, hoping to spend a little time with him, but his tent was empty. His page said he went out for a morning ride with a fellow knight and never returned. When there was still no word of him by nightfall, I asked Sir James to come to our camp and demanded to know what he’d done. He looked confused, the rogue, and claimed he’d not seen Ransom since meeting him at our tent. Although he promised to have his men search for Ransom. I’d much sooner trust the knights of Glosstyr.

Da thinks I’m being foolish, but something is very wrong. Maybe someone doesn’t want him competing in the tournament, afraid he will win the day. If that’s all it is, I can abide such a disappointment. But if he’s been wounded or killed because of this, I won’t be able to bear it. What are these feelings? Why am I so anxious to see him well? It’s probably nothing. But my heart whispers he has fallen into great danger.

—Claire de Murrow

Chessy Field, Kingdom of Occitania





CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Fountain-Blessed

Ransom lowered his lance into place as the sounds of battle flooded his ears—the terror of colliding horses, the grunts of angry warriors, the strife of steel, and the splintering cracks of the lances. His own lance found a target and unhorsed an enemy knight. The man was flung from his saddle and landed with back-breaking force, but Ransom’s triumph was short-lived as another knight aimed for him. He tried to swivel his lance to engage on the other side, but the lance was already coming, too hard and fast to be avoided.

Ransom felt a gut-wrenching dread that he would be impaled like Lord Rakestraw. He leaned in his saddle to dodge the thrust, but the knight had aimed poorly, and the lance struck Ransom’s destrier instead. He felt the shudder of muscle between his legs as the horse took the full brunt of the charge. It was a death blow.