Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(8)

“Do you want to spend the night?” Ransom asked. “It will be dark soon.”

Sir William pursed his lips. “Sorry, lad. I wouldn’t want to abuse the right of hospitality. I fought against your father during the war.” He shook his head. “I’d rather sleep in a meadow. But there’s a village farther on, closer to Westmarch. I’ll try my luck there and avoid an . . . awkward confrontation.”

Ransom expected his parents would honor the right of hospitality, but he wasn’t sure enough to press the matter further.

“Well, Sir William. Good luck on your travels. I hope you reach Occitania safely.”

“I’m wearing my hauberk under the tunic just in case,” he said with a grin. “Your older brother, what was his name?”

“Marcus,” Ransom said.

“Your father’s name is John? That’s a common name in Ceredigion.”

Ransom nodded. “Aye.”

“Well, he sired you, so there must be some good in him.” He winked at Ransom. “You’re a good lad. I’m glad to have known you. If I had any prospects, I’d take you on as my squire right now.”

Ransom felt a keen ache in his breast. “I’d still go with you.”

Sir William sighed. “I know you would, lad. And I’m sorely tempted. But I don’t have the money to start a mesnie of my own. I have no lands, no income. I have to prove myself all over again to another lord. But I promise you this—if I come across a situation that requires a strapping youth willing to work hard for very little money, I’ll be sure to mention your name.”

Ransom grinned at the banter. “I’d come.”

“Your prospects are brighter than you think. Maybe I’ll come looking for work from you in a few years. Go to your father. And give your mother a kiss, even if it embarrasses you. Do right by her, and she’ll do right by you.”

“Thank you. I will.”

Sir William straightened the fingers on his right hand, cocking his thumb, and then tapped the thumb against his left breast twice, an informal salute between two knights, one they did as they passed each other on the road. It was a sign of respect, and although Ransom was much younger and didn’t deserve the tribute, he felt the honor of it catch fire in his chest. He mimicked the gesture, and Sir William nodded to him and continued down the road.

Ransom watched him for a moment longer, wishing he could follow. Sir William was a true knight and more of a brother to Ransom than Marcus had ever been. The brothers had never been playmates—Marcus was four years older, and he’d always gone off with Father on his duties as head of the estate.

“On, Gemmell,” Ransom said, shifting in the saddle.

The steed obeyed and took the fork in the road. The road cut through a light grouping of yew trees, and Ransom kept his eye on the thick branches, hoping no thieves lurked there waiting to rob him. But there was nothing beyond a few wagons and small encampments. After clearing the rise, a meadow of yellow broom opened before him, along with a view of the castle his father was still building. The years had added to its height, but there were still some timbers framed along the walls along with ropes and winches for hauling stones to the higher towers. It seemed a small village had been built up around the base of the keep, with two dozen or so wattle-and-daub houses made of timber and mud. Living in the shadow of a castle provided protection, but these seemed to be skilled workers, not farmers. A few pens with sheep and goats could be seen, and the road was riddled with ruts and puddles.

No one took notice of Ransom as he approached, his horse’s hooves thudding in the dirt. He saw workers on the walls, many laboring vigorously despite the lateness of the day. Carts with cut stones and timbers were brought up the road to the main oak door of the castle. Ransom joined the flow and proceeded to the gate.

When he got there, a sentry halted him. “What’s your business, lad? You here looking for work with Lord Barton? We got enough guards. Too many if you ask me, and you’re too young.”

Ransom stared at the man, not recognizing him or anyone else.

“I’m Lord Barton’s son,” he said, his voice suddenly squeaking. He cleared his throat.

The sentry looked at him incredulously. “You’re not his . . .” Then his voice trailed off, and his eyes widened with surprise.

“I’m Marshall, the second eldest,” Ransom said.

The sentry’s eyes bugged out. He grabbed the other sentry and shoved him. “On your way, man! Marshall’s home!”



Night had settled over the keep, and a crackling fire lit the hearth. Ransom sat on a bench, his stomach full of venison and carrots and bread aplenty. His younger sister, Maeg, stared at him as if he were a particularly interesting stranger. She was probably seven or eight and shared his coloring, but it was clear she didn’t remember him well. She stared at Ransom the way he used to stare at Claire—interested but bashful—at the beginning of his stay in Kingfountain. Thinking about her brought back the awful reality that he might never see her again.

His mother, Lady Sibyl, had greeted him with relief and surprise and many tears. But his father, Lord Barton, hadn’t appeared yet, and neither had his older brother. Both, his mother had told him, were directing stone masons on repairs for a tower wall and roof.

The food he ate was tasteless as he awaited their return. Finally, noise from the front of the castle announced their arrival. The two hunting dogs, Manx and Moor, lifted their heads and began whining. Ransom’s stomach clenched with worry as he rose from the bench to greet his father. His mother and sister also rose.