Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(50)

(preparing to voyage, returning to Kingfountain)





CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Loyalty

Ransom had never been to Tatton Grange before, the hereditary seat of the duchy of Westmarch. It was situated in a lush farming valley that grew fields of wheat, barley, rye, and dozens of other grains, which were milled in stone huts guarded day and night by the soldiers in the duchy’s massive army. Tatton Grange was a stone building that looked more like a sanctuary of Our Lady than it did a castle, with a sloping shingled roof and arrow slits instead of windows. The high walls were supported by buttresses, and the main door was twice the height of a man.

Ransom had been surprised to see how many people lived throughout the valley, with its pens full of cattle, work horses, and sundry livestock. Clusters of trees stood out within the pastures, but truly he could see for leagues in every direction, or at least until the distant hills blocked the view.

Upon arriving at Tatton Grange, Ransom was sent to the armory, where he was fitted with a chain hauberk from a vast store of them. Spears and swords lined the walls, along with an assortment of battle axes.

“You need a sword too?” asked the armorer serving him.

“A bastard sword if you have one,” Ransom asked, his keen eye looking at the assortment of weapons.

“You prefer Occitanian weapons, then,” said the man, rubbing his hands together. “Let me see . . . let me see . . . ah!” He went over to a pile of swords, reaching for one that was taller than its brethren. “This ought to do! And it already has a scabbard. Let me find a belt, and you can be on your way to your meeting with Lord Kinghorn.”

Ransom took it, and as soon as his hand closed around the hilt, he felt a gentle thrumming begin to fill the emptiness inside. He closed his eyes, breathing it in. He drew the blade, which was speckled with stains and had a few nicks in it. It was battle tested.

When Ransom approached the open door to Lord Kinghorn’s chamber, he found the man coughing into his fist. It was a scene he’d witnessed many times in the past, and he felt a measure of sorrow for the new constable. This environment was surely not one he’d have chosen.

“Come in,” Lord Kinghorn said after the spasm ebbed.

Ransom stood at attention, his heart ripe with gratitude still. Lord Kinghorn took a drink of water. The table before him was overloaded with books, but there weren’t yet shelves on the wall to contain them. He waited in silence until the coughing fit ended.

“How do you fare, my lord?” Ransom asked.

“As well as can be after riding so far. I was expecting an ambush, but we were prepared for one. Poor Rakestraw. He was a good man.”

Ransom nodded, feeling morose again.

“You will ride on to Kingfountain, Marshall. The queen is expecting you. I will be joining shortly thereafter for the coronation.”

The words startled Ransom. “M-my lord?”

Lord Kinghorn smiled. “You’ve been a prisoner for many months, so of course you don’t know the news. Devon Argentine has been beset by difficulties ever since he took the hollow crown. One problem ends only for another to spring up. The kingship is his by right, yet he is either very unlucky or there is a deliberate attempt to undermine him.”

Ransom looked at him with trepidation. “Who?”

“Who else?” said Lord Kinghorn with a steely gaze. “King Lewis has always considered these lands to be his.”

“Westmarch?”

“Aye, and more. Brythonica, the Vexin. There is a history of invasions between our realms that goes back to the age of the Wizrs, I should think. Long has Lewis coveted the hollow crown, as did his father and his father before him. During the civil war, Lewis offered Devon Argentine money and troops to fuel the conflict. I think he hoped both sides would cripple each other enough that he could swoop in and win. But his machinations worked against him, and now King Devon’s too powerful for Lewis to attack directly, lest he risk losing more land. And so he continues to push at him in subtle ways, funding this person and that, inciting trouble where he can. Our king is tired of constantly defending his territory. He intends to bring the fight to Lewis himself.”

“How will he do that?”

“By showing King Lewis that he is not to be trifled with.” Another bout of coughing seized him, stalling the conversation. After it calmed again, he continued. “King Devon is returning here, to his ancestral duchy. And he’s bringing his army with him to support his interests here and make a statement to Lewis’s nobles. He’s decided to crown his son, Devon the Younger, as King of Ceredigion. But not the boy’s queen. Noemie will be crowned later.”

Ransom’s eyes widened. “She’s the Black Prince’s sister.”

Lord Kinghorn nodded. “Yes. But we still have a queen. Queen Emiloh.”

Ransom winced. “The Occitanians will take it as an affront, my lord.”

“The king does it deliberately. It’s his way of telling Lewis that he knows he’s interfering in our affairs. It’s an open provocation, a challenge. Lewis believes that he will win Ceredigion through marriage alliances. Princes Devon and Bennett both have marriage alliances. Goff’s is Brythonican, which again strengthens our position. The king’s youngest son will be given to Glosstyr’s daughter, the heiress of Legault.”

The words punched Ransom in the chest. He blinked, felt his throat struggle to swallow.