Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(42)

Ransom fought against swords, daggers, and even a wicked-looking battle axe. Yet he defended himself from each assault with cunning and skill. He was surprised that he wasn’t gasping for breath. In the training yards at Averanche or the tournament grounds at Chessy, he’d fought in all manner of combinations, but never had he been so outnumbered. Still the waters rushed in his ears, inside him.

He held his place at the hedge, countering every opponent. Even the wounded returned for more, wave after wave, trying to overwhelm him. But they couldn’t. He felt like a rock being pummeled by the surf. Yet the rock held firm.

“Yield!” shouted the man on horseback, speaking in Occitanian.

“Never!” Ransom shouted back, blocking again, kicking another man down.

The man astride the horse frowned and then nodded.

It was a signal.

Pain exploded in Ransom’s leg.

He saw the tip of a lance puncture his muscle. The blow had come from behind him, and he realized one of the enemies had circled around the hedge and punctured it with a lance.

The gush of the waterfall began to fade, panic writhing in its wake. The pain was excruciating. The attacker yanked the lance back, and Ransom’s muscles quivered as he saw blood running down his own leg. He dropped down to his hands and knees and found himself staring into the vacant gaze of his friend, Sir William, who lay amidst the other corpses. His arms trembled with weariness as he felt the draining sensation he’d experienced during the Brugian campaign. Hollowness. Emptiness. Weakness.

The pain in his leg drove away the fear of death. He hung his head, waiting for the killing blow, one that would take off his head. More orders were given. He saw the armored feet of knights standing around him. As he breathed what he felt was his last breath, he saw the braided charm still around his wrist, droplets of blood smeared on it. He thought of Claire, and the joy of seeing her smile and hearing her laugh after so many years apart. At least they’d been able to walk through the pavilions together, although his heart had longed for so much more.

Disappointment stabbed his heart. He let out his breath and collapsed, his strength utterly gone.

One of the knights asked a question. Even though it was spoken in the guttural tongue, he understood the meaning, though he didn’t know how he knew it.

“What manner of knight is this man? I’ve never seen such a warrior.”

He heard a gruff reply. “I’ve never seen one myself, but I’ve heard of such. He must be Fountain-blessed. Throw his body on one of the horses. Bring him with us.”

The pain was unbearable. Yet Ransom was too exhausted to do anything other than moan when they grabbed him beneath the arms and hoisted him up.



The enemy knights had thrown Ransom’s body across the back of a rouncy, securing him there with rope. He blacked out from the pain for a while until the harsh riding finally roused him again. The pressure against his chest from the bouncing was bad enough, but his leg was still bleeding, robbing his strength. None had tended to his wound in their haste to leave the scene of death.

They rode back the way they’d come, not following the queen. He didn’t know why, but he reasoned that the desire to escape and survive had overpowered their need to capture the queen. Besides which, she’d gotten far enough ahead it was unlikely they’d catch up to her. The jolting blows against the hard saddle made him grunt and wish for the misery to end. All of the other knights had died. In his mind, he saw Dyron Rakestraw’s death over and over again. Who would have risked such a thing? Surely the King of Ceredigion would be avenged of his foes, but why not seek a ransom from such a powerful lord? It was madness.

They rode for several leagues before turning onto another lane. They were heading into the territory of DeVaux, Ransom surmised. When they stopped, it was not at a manor or a castle but in a secluded wood. The riders dismounted and began arguing worriedly among themselves. Their leader dismounted as well. He looked over at Ransom, who was still trussed to the saddle, and gave a command. This time, Ransom could not understand the guttural language. Two of the knights approached, released his bindings, and hefted him off the horse before dumping him to the ground. He was left where he’d fallen.

Ransom looked down at his wounded leg and saw the blood soaking his pants. He’d seen vicious wounds before but never on his own body. He turned his face away, trying not to pass out. Some of the knights drank from flasks. None offered him anything. His own thirst was difficult to bear. They spoke and debated one with another before the leader sauntered over to Ransom.

“What languages do you speak?” asked the man warily in Occitanian.

“I understand you,” Ransom answered.

“Are you Occitanian, then?”

Ransom shook his head no.

“Ceredigic?”

Ransom nodded.

The man pursed his lips and nodded, looking intrigued by his captive. “Was that Lord Rakestraw we killed? He was protecting your queen?”

“Yes,” Ransom said. “Why did you kill him?”

The man laughed. “It wasn’t my intention to kill the constable! By the Fountain, no! I thought he’d surrender. That we’d get a fair ransom for Emiloh. But she escaped, your fellows are all dead, I lost a goodly number of knights, and now if I’m not careful, that will be my fate as well.” He rubbed his mouth.

“Who are you?” Ransom asked.