Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(45)

“Only broth,” assured the lady. “Taste it yourself.”

“Turkey broth.”

“Indeed. No more or less.”

They were speaking in Occitanian. He wondered where they were, which castle. Then he felt pressure on the bedside and smelled the broth and the faint aroma of lilac. He tried to open his eyes, but the lids were too heavy.

He felt her hand reach behind his neck and lift him up. He twitched from the softness of her touch.

“Here, can you hold this?” she whispered, bringing the cup to his lips. The smell of it made him ravenous with hunger.

He tried to ask who she was, but he couldn’t speak. With the first splash of broth on his tongue, he was eager to gulp the rest of it down.

“Slowly. Shhh . . . slowly. You’ll choke on it.”

“He can feed himself,” said one of the knights in a resentful tone. “Be gone, my lady. He’s an enemy.”

He felt her hand on his forehead. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It’s all I can do.”

“Go on now,” complained the knight.

He felt her leave, taking the smell of lilac with her. Again he tried to open his eyes. Again he failed. Grunting, he propped himself up on his elbow, holding the cup of broth she’d given him. He took another deep swallow and then drained the cup.

“She’s a fair thing,” mumbled one of the knights.

“Stop your lusting,” said his companion. “DeVaux said not to touch any of them unless they disobey him. He’ll want her for himself. I’m hungry. Go get me some food.”

“What, you don’t want that hunk of moldy bread?”

“No, you sod! Get us something good. Let the cripple have the bread.”

The other man left, his steps echoing down the stone corridor.

Ransom didn’t care that it was moldy. They’d hardly wasted provisions on their wounded prisoner, expecting him to die. He rubbed his eyes and got them to open at last. A small loaf of bread speckled with mold lay at the edge of his pallet, left there by the lady of the castle.

He wished he’d saved some of the broth to make it go down more easily. Ransom lifted the bread to his mouth and took a large bite from it. The crust was stale, and it had an unpleasant odor, but he chewed a little bit before looking down.

The inside of the loaf had been hollowed out. He stared in surprise. Strips of linen had been rolled up and stuffed inside, concealed in the bread itself. He blinked, unable to understand the new feeling that began to seep into his chest.

The lady of the castle had shown him compassion despite knowing she risked herself and those she protected.

The knight leaning against the wall stared at him, arms folded. “Enjoying your bread?”

Ransom wanted to punch him, but he shrugged instead. “Anything tastes good when you’re starving.”

The knight laughed. “If you say so.”

“Where are we?” Ransom asked, grateful his dizziness had abated after drinking the broth. His appetite had only been teased so far.

“You think I’ll tell you?” said the knight. “You’ve no right to know. What if you live, eh?” His look was dark. “But I don’t think you’re one of the blessed. DeVaux is wrong about you. I’ve bet ten livres on it. You’ll be dead in three days. Maybe four. And you deserve it. You killed my friend.” His eyes flashed with hatred. “I hope you rot and then die. Painfully.”

He wasn’t the first man who had wished Ransom would die. Nor would he be the last.

Ransom looked down at his wrist and found the bracelet was gone. One of his captors had stolen it from him in his delirium. The rage that filled the emptiness in his chest nearly made him start screaming accusations. It had been given to him by Claire. He wanted it back, and in that moment, he would have killed any of them to get it. The violence of his thoughts alarmed him. He was still sick, still weak. He couldn’t hurt anyone. But he wanted to. He wanted to make them suffer.

Instead, he chewed on another piece of moldy bread, breathing in and out through his nose to stifle his fury. And when the other knight returned with a platter of cold meat, a wedge of cheese, and some goblets of wine, the two men sat on the floor and began to eat in front of him. Ransom turned over on the cot so that his back was to them, removed the linen from the bread. A thought struck him that perhaps the bread might help soak up some of the blood. He unfastened the bloody bandage before pressing the bread against the wound.

The lady of the castle had helped him. Knowing that secret helped him endure the agony he caused himself. He would guard her secret. As he tied the strips of linen over his wounds, he thanked her repeatedly in his mind.

He promised himself he would find a way to thank her for her kindness.





Every day I keep hoping for word, but I’ve heard naught but silence. It has been three months since the tournament of Chessy, and still no one knows if Ransom survived the slaughter on the road to Auxaunce. Not knowing is frightful, yet at least it allows me to hope. All the knights that Queen Emiloh brought with her were slain. Even Lord Rakestraw was slain. Peasant farmers said that one man fought against a hundred. That he was pierced by a lance from behind a hedge and taken by DeVaux.

That is all we know. Did they dump his body in the woods? What has become of him? Nothing. We know nothing. Silent, cruel, menacing nothing. Da has left for Atha Kleah to hold the courts of justice again before winter. The thought of winter coming adds to my torment. What have they done to my Ransom? And how will he survive the coming cold, if he has survived at all? I’m weeping again. How I hate to cry.