Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(58)

Sir Alain nodded to Ransom, who nodded back.

“This is Sir Talbot from the Vexin, my mother’s lands. Here is Sir Robert Tregoss of Stowe. He’s a beggar on a horse, I tell you! I don’t know anyone who can ride or joust better than Tregoss. A fair warning, his destrier will take a bite out of you if you get too close.” Sir Talbot had light brown hair, down to his shoulders, and a close-cropped beard, and Sir Robert was dark in hair, eye, and beard. “And finally, here is our good friend Sir Simon of Holmberg. He keeps my purse, pays for our food and drink, distributes our largesse for such worthy deeds as drinking copious amounts of wine, and is the man who begs coins from father’s steward when we run out! Sir Simon! Hail to thee!” Sir Simon was the shortest of the group, but he had a friendly smile and a goatee that was similar in style to his prince’s, only it was fuller since he was older.

“Shall we go out again tonight?” James asked, clapping Robert on the back. “The coronation isn’t for two more days. I’m sure we can sleep it off by then. If you’re too tired after your journey, Ransom, you can wait for us here.”

Ransom knew it would take time to win trust among these fellows. But it was clear to him that they took their moods from the Younger King and especially from Sir James. He had no intention of leaving them.

“Do you have a favorite place to go?” Ransom asked, looking at the king, signaling his willingness.

“I suggest the Broken Table,” said Sir James. “Remember that brute of a man who likes to start fights?” He glanced at Ransom. “I wonder how our new knight of fellowship would hold up against someone like him?”

A sour feeling rippled through Ransom’s stomach.





He has been chosen to serve the Younger King. Why did this surprise me? But I confess that it did. I thought perhaps he would serve the Vexin queen, as some call her, since she paid his ransom. But word has spread through the palace. Gossip does fly on quicksilver hooves. I tried to find Ransom today, but he was being moved from place to place, never still for more than a moment. I might not see him until the coronation itself, and even then, will I have the chance to greet him? I don’t know.

My maid from the palace, her name is Genevote, such a pretty name, informed me that Ransom joined Prince Devon for supper. Sir James was also in attendance, along with the rest of the prince’s knights. That particular news made me determined not to go. How awkward that would have been. He’s written five letters . . . or was it six? They’re all full of courtly nonsense. I haven’t responded to any of them, nor will I. I wish I could get a message to Ransom. The wind is cold tonight. I’m restless. I must be patient, but it is so hard. Genevote is asking what I’m writing, so I should hide this book. I wouldn’t want her to read it.

—Claire de Murrow

Kingfountain Palace

Eventide





CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Anvil’s Thrum

The Broken Table was not what Ransom had supposed, a seedy tavern with dilapidated furniture, the skeletons of chairs in piles on the floor due to drunken brawls. Far from it, it was jovial, and the name came from the legend of King Andrew and his Ring Table. The proprietor made the dubious claim that his furniture had been made from the famous wood of that high court, long since lost to the mists of history. A fire raged in a hearth fashioned from stone blocks.

The brute mentioned by James was the huge man in charge of keeping the peace. His name was Gimmelich, and he sat in the corner with a huge tankard, keeping an eye on the customers. A scrawny minstrel played a lute on a barrel, singing a little ditty and encouraging participation from the half-sober crowd. The Younger King joined in the merriment, raising a cup as he belted out the lyrics in a surprisingly melodic voice. Sir James stood alongside him, although his pitch was off. They had all come wearing deep-hooded cloaks, which they’d doffed upon entering the establishment.

“You’re not drinking,” said Sir Simon, scooting his chair closer to Ransom’s.

“It’s best if at least one of us keeps his head,” Ransom replied. “It’s hard to protect a man if you can’t walk straight.”

“Very true,” replied the knight, taking a small sip from his cup. “It’s usually me that remains sober. Glad I won’t be alone this time.”

“Where is Holmberg, Sir Simon?”

“It’s in the duchy of Southport. A coastal town.” Sir Simon was modest in size, but he had a look of wisdom in his eyes. He glanced around the room repeatedly, keeping aware of his surroundings. There was a wariness to him.

“Are you nervous?” Ransom asked him.

“No, just trying to keep track of how much everyone is drinking. Here comes Sir Robert with his third cup. Some of the tavern keepers try charging us extra for our drinks. I hate it when the prince decides to pay for everyone’s. Sometimes I don’t have enough coin with me.”

Ransom could appreciate the quandary. “He’s just showing his generosity, as a good lord should.”

“Oh, he’s generous,” said Simon under his breath. “If only his father were.”

“The king is wealthy, is he not?” Ransom said. “With the revenues from all his lands, his worth must rival that of King Lewis by now.”

“Wealthy he is. Generous he is not.”