Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(53)

He smiled, giving her a tender look. “I wasn’t sure whether I’d be welcome. The last time I came . . . I was only too grateful to leave.”

“Father was a hard man,” Maeg said. “He always worried about whether there’d be enough. Enough food. Enough protection. Enough livres. He fretted and worried his whole life, trying to protect us.”

Ransom didn’t talk about his childhood memory of being offered as a human sacrifice to King Gervase. It still ached, but he didn’t wish to burden his sister.

“Was it painful when Father died?” Ransom asked Maeg.

“Of course,” she said, frowning. “When they brought his body back, I couldn’t believe it was him. I don’t think I ever saw him sit still for very long. I kept expecting his corpse to jump up and get back to work on the castle.” She shook her head, and her dark hair flashed in the autumn light. “He was a harsh man. An unfriendly one. We put his body on a bed of rushes and sent it floating onto the pond. No one came, it was just Mother and me and Sir Kace, who had brought the body back. No one wept, although we felt miserable. The Deep Fathoms didn’t claim him. The wolves did.”

The thought made Ransom’s stomach clench. “He left a dowry for you, though?”

“Two hundred livres for both of us,” she said. “It isn’t much, but it is better than pigs or cows.”

“I should hope so. Are there any young knights that you fancy, Sister?”

She gave him a wary look. “Mother keeps asking, but I don’t dare tell her.”

“Thankfully, I am not your mother,” Ransom quipped.

“Sir Kace,” she said with a sigh, resting her head on her arms while leaning against the barrier. “He’s always been so kind to me. So thoughtful. But he’s bashful by nature. He would never have dared to ask Father for my hand.”

“You are young still,” Ransom said. “Give him time.”

“What about you?” She turned, grinning at him. “Is there a fair lady who has won your heart?”

Ransom looked down at his braided bracelet. “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps? This sounds interesting. What is her name? Is she Occitanian?”

“No.”

Her eyes dancing, she tugged on his arm. “Tell me.”

As he looked at his sister, it struck him that she was only a few years older than the age Claire had been when they’d left Kingfountain. Part of him wanted to reveal his heart to her, but he didn’t want to sound like a fool.

He knew Claire de Murrow was not for the likes of him.



Before arriving at the palace, Ransom had stopped in one of the villages on the outskirts and paid a blacksmith to help him don his armor. He didn’t wear his helmet because he wanted to feast on the sights and smells of the palace city.

As he rode into Kingfountain—one hand loosely holding the reins, the other resting on the pommel of the sword he’d gotten from the armory in Tatton Grange—many vendors flocked to his horse. Other passersby asked for his name and what lord he served, but he didn’t answer their questions, only nodded amiably and continued at a leisurely clop through the streets. When he reached the bridge that crossed over the falls, the sound of rushing water filled his ears, and he thought about all the times he’d heard it since leaving. The waters of the river had a pure smell—it was difficult to describe, but the scent of wet rock was overpowering and memorable.

As he reached the gates leading to the sanctuary, he turned his horse and rode into the courtyard, feeling an overpowering sense of tranquility as he did so. He approached the large pool outside the massive structure and reached into his purse to retrieve a single silver livre. He tossed it toward the center of the pool, watching as the coin plopped into the water. He stared at the statue of the Lady of the Fountain and nodded to it, offering a small prayer in his heart.

Thank you, Our Lady, for sparing my life.

A prickle of warmth went down his back, making him feel restless and uneasy.

Was it his imagination?

Gooseflesh tingled down his arms, nearly making him tremble. He stared at the statue for a moment longer. Lord Kinghorn was a Vox knight who had tried for years to hear the voice, but he had never heard an answer. Lord Kinghorn was one of the most honorable men in Ransom’s acquaintance—if he had not been deemed worthy, what hope did Ransom have? None whatsoever. Besides which, the creeping anxiety he’d felt while talking to the older man returned at the sight of the Lady. What would he do if he did hear the voice of the Fountain?

What if it told him that he’d gotten everything wrong?

He turned his steed and exited the gate, aware of the constant stares that came his way. No one recognized him, but then again, why would they? He’d left as a lad, and the city saw many knights coming in and out.

As his steed climbed the hill, memories of his youth at Kingfountain came rushing back. Claire was in most of them. He let out his breath slowly, trying to tame the nest of hornets in his stomach. He was worried about talking to her, afraid he’d come across as a fool, yet he needed to see her. Truth be told, he was also worried about seeing Queen Emiloh. How could he thank her for paying for his release? No simple words could suffice.

When he reached the gates, the soldiers on duty asked him to identify himself.

“I am Marshall Barton come from Tatton Grange. Lord Kinghorn sent me.”