Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(59)

Sir Robert slumped down in a chair at their table, stifling a belch. “Where is your cup, Sir Ransom?” he asked, giving him a hearty thump on the back.

“I think you’re drinking for both of us tonight,” Ransom said.

“That’s commendable, thank you,” said Sir Robert with a lopsided grin. “However, Sir Simon would disapprove. And I already owe him money for the trinket I bought that lass before leaving Dundrennan. She will mourn me, I fear. Poor lass.” His words didn’t ring true.

“Since you brought up the topic of your debt,” said Simon, “shall I remind you that you were to reimburse the royal purse after the steward paid you?”

“I haven’t seen the steward yet. After the coronation.” He tipped his cup and drank some more.

“It better be, or I’ll charge usury.”

“No one likes a miser, Simon.”

“Or a debtor either,” said Ransom. “A knight pays his obligations.”

Clapping started up in the center of the room as the minstrel began plucking a dancing tune on his lute. Someone joined with a flute, and soon a wheel of people had formed in the center of the floor for the dance. James and Devon were quick to join it. More patrons continued to flood into the establishment, the crowd so thick it made Ransom uneasy. Word must have spread that the Younger King would be present tonight.

“And you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?” said Sir Robert with a taunting look. “Five thousand the queen paid for you, was it not? What did she ask in return?”

Ransom could see he was already drunk, or nearly so. Men tended to say things they regretted later when less than sober. Sir Simon’s eyes widened at the insult, and he slowly leaned away. He clearly expected some sort of reprisal to be exacted, and Ransom did imagine punching Sir Robert on the jaw. His cup would spill, and the scrap would likely bring Gimmelich over in a hurry. But then he let go of his anger, choosing to ignore the insult instead. As a prisoner among DeVaux’s men, he had learned some patience.

He’d use words instead of fists. “She told me that the Younger King’s knights need a little discipline. I can see she was right.”

“I am a knight, just as you are,” said Sir Robert, his face twisting with anger.

“Prove it with your deeds,” said Ransom, then turned away and folded his arms. He wondered if Robert might be foolish enough to start a fight with him. The matter was quickly decided when the bout of dancing ended and Devon and James returned to the table, both of them laughing and breathing hard.

Devon lounged in a chair, his long legs stretched out. He looked around for something to drink, then nodded to Simon to get something. The long-suffering knight set off to do so.

“Do you dance, Sir Ransom?” Devon asked between breaths. The collar of his pomegranate tunic had been tugged open even more.

“My leg is still healing, my lord. But I know a few Occitanian ones,” he answered.

“I should like to see them. You are so serious, I cannot picture you in a reel. I’m still trying to take your measure.”

James grunted. “Why, he’s taller than me but not so tall as Your Grace.”

“I don’t mean measure him like a horse,” said Devon, chuckling. Simon returned to the table with a serving maiden who carried a couple of full cups. Devon took one of them and thanked her before taking his first gulp. He winced, shook his head. “Not the finest grog tonight, I’m afraid. Sorry, lads. I think they are saving the better stuff for after the coronation.”

“And a fine celebration that will be,” James said, accepting a cup from her as well.

Devon set his down, shifting his body to face Ransom, putting his elbows on the table. “I heard from my mother that DeVaux’s men had to use a lance to bring you down. That they speared it through your leg.”

“That they did,” Ransom said. “And the scar will prove it.”

Sir Robert rolled his eyes and looked away, but Devon was clearly interested. “I’m surprised you didn’t lose it. A normal man wouldn’t have survived such a wound.”

“He’s Fountain-blessed,” said James with a wry smile.

Sir Talbot joined them at the table. He had a questioning look. “Who’s Fountain-blessed?”

“They’re saying Ransom is,” said Simon. “I’d wager it’s true.”

“Are you?” asked Devon with interest. “Is that how you survived?”

“I survived because of the generosity of a lady,” Ransom said softly.

“Now this I must hear,” James crooned, leaning forward.

The others did the same. Even Sir Robert turned around.

Ransom saw their attention, their interest. They wanted a story. They craved one. He wondered if they were bored with the riches and finery of court—it certainly seemed so from their level of interest. “After I was captured, they tied me to a nag and dragged me through half of the Vexin and who knows where else. I was still bleeding the whole time, though they refused to treat me. I had to rip part of my tunic with my teeth to bind my own wound.” Sir Alain, who’d joined them shortly after Ransom started speaking, began to look a little greensick. “Soon it was soaked in blood. I had to rip more of the cloth and reapply the bandage. It wouldn’t stop bleeding. I was sick and fainting from the pain. I knew if I didn’t help myself, they’d leave my corpse in a ditch.”