Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(43)

“You don’t know me?”

“I’ve never been to the Vexin before.”

“I am Lord DeVaux. And you are my prisoner. What’s your name?”

“Ransom Barton.”

DeVaux shrugged. “That name means nothing to me. I thought you might be one of the Black Prince’s men. I’ve heard one of his knights is Fountain-blessed. You fought bravely today. Such skill. It’s commendable. But I won’t let you go. Not without a ransom. A ransom for Ransom.” He chuckled. “Will anyone pay for you, I wonder?”

Ransom didn’t know. He already hated this man. His mind was whirring again, his thoughts tangled into knots.

Fountain-blessed. They think I’m Fountain-blessed.

“I’m wounded.”

DeVaux shrugged. “So you are. Tend to yourself. You spilled enough of our blood—it’s only proper you should lose some too. You ride with us, for we are outlaws now. We must keep out of reach of your king.”

Ransom grimaced. “He’s your king as well.”

DeVaux scoffed. “I didn’t choose him.”





It was the blacksmith who told me. Ransom’s tent and his gear and armor were collected by men in the employ of the lord constable of Westmarch. He was not at the tournament because he left with Rakestraw’s men. I’m trying not to think of that boy as a rotten dung beetle right now for leaving without a word. I gave him my favor, and he vanished without a trace. The tournament was flawless—if you are Occitanian. One of Prince Estian’s knights won the day and received the high glory and honor of the prince. Of the three champions crowned with rose garlands, all three were from the duchies of this land. And many a knight from Ceredigion will be carried home on a litter while nursing broken ribs, arms, and legs.

Da says we are leaving tomorrow. He will send me back to Glosstyr to handle his affairs there, and he will return through Brythonica to Legault as originally planned. I hope to see Ransom before I go, but no one knows where Lord Rakestraw ran off to with his knights. I feel barmy for having worried so much these last few days. I’d hoped to persuade father to take Ransom into his mesnie, but the duchy of Westmarch has far more significance than that of Glosstyr. At least I know where he is now. That is a relief.

—Claire de Murrow

Chessy Field

(in a tent)





CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Fever Dreams

As soon as Ransom loosened the blood-soaked bandage, he saw fresh wetness well up from the gaping wound. He leaned back against the tree, panting against the pain. DeVaux’s men had offered no assistance at all, and he’d had to use his teeth to bite through his tunic and rip some strips of fabric to bind his own injury. They would not even trust him with a small dagger.

Sweat and chills rippled through his body. His mind felt sluggish and preoccupied with worries of death. Even with the tight covering, the wound hadn’t closed, and it bled as freely as ever. He puffed out his breath, adjusting his seat despite the agony, and tore several more strips of fabric from his tunic. DeVaux’s men watched him with dark looks. He’d get no help there.

Ransom was determined to live. The thought burned in his skull alongside the growing fever. He yanked and ripped at the fabric until his strength failed him, and he slumped back against the tree to rest, breathing heavily. Then he worked at it again, until he had a long enough piece to wrap around the injury. His fingers looked grotesque with the smears of dirt and blood. He clenched his teeth against the pain as he wrapped the strip above his wound and knotted it. Then he grabbed a stick and used it to tighten the fabric until it bit into his skin. The agony was excruciating. His gasps were desperate.

DeVaux sauntered up to him, his eyes bleary from their arduous ride through the countryside. “Get up. We have to keep moving.”

Ransom couldn’t have spoken if he’d wanted to. Ignoring DeVaux, he wrapped another piece of torn cloth around the stick to hold it in place. The self-inflicted torture nearly made him black out.

“Get up! If you are truly Fountain-blessed, you may live. If not, there’s nothing that will save you. That wound will undoubtedly fester, and you’ll be dead before long. Or you’ll have a stump and be a cripple all your life. We’re going. Now.”

Ransom struggled to rise, pushing with his good leg and using the tree to pull himself up. The bark scraped his hands, leaving splinters, which began to itch. Gobs of sticky sap clung to him. He glared at Lord DeVaux, but he said nothing. If he’d had a dagger, he would have been tempted to use his last burst of energy to attack his captor and kill him.

But he had no weapon—he had nothing but the will to live. So he hobbled to the horse and stepped onto a fallen log to mount it. His vision blurred once he was in the saddle, but he gripped the saddle horn, willing himself to stay upright. If he fell off, he knew they would leave him to die in the woods.

Another knight took the reins, and off they went again. Ransom didn’t have the mental faculties to guide a horse anyway, and he had no idea where they were or where they were going. They’d slept out of doors the previous night, but he’d overheard DeVaux saying they were bound for a castle to seek refuge and supplies. Ransom slumped against the horse, trying to stifle the moans that forced their way from his mouth. His leg throbbed mercilessly.

They rode through forests, through valleys. Sometimes he’d see little farm huts. The knights would stop and pillage food before riding on. He never saw evidence of the farmers or their families. Wisely, they scurried away when armed knights came into view.